


Hell, High Water and Amnesia

by Maekala



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Big Bang Challenge, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-16
Updated: 2012-09-17
Packaged: 2017-11-14 10:04:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 36,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/514072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maekala/pseuds/Maekala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following an explosion, Reese loses parts of memory including everything to do with Finch and the Machine. Not sure who to trust, John evades the FBI, CIA and Carter as he attempts to remember who he's become and why he's drawn to this strange man with a limp.</p><p>Rated Mature for violence and discussion of injuries sustained.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this fic was originally started as part of pod_together, but then it kept getting longer...and longer...and longer. And then I saw the announcement for PoI Big Bang and decided that would work better. This fic would never have been written without the initial cheerleading from podcath. I'd also like to thank togsos for her awesome, awesome art. She captured the scene exactly as I'd pictured it in my head. Final thanks go to sevencorvus for letting me participate in the Big Bang at the last minute.
> 
> Art by togosos can be found on LJ at http://maekala.livejournal.com/177186.html

Chapter 1

 

Reese blocked his opponents' flailing with ease. He couldn't even really call it any sort of martial art, but the presence of a tightly gripped knife was keeping Reese from coming too close. He would have normally disarmed the man before this became a real brawl, but the thug had friends. They were littering the floor now and Reese eyed a fallen piece of furniture and decided that would work nicely to deal with him. Seconds later and knife-man was on the ground, unconscious.

 

“Mr. Reese?” asked Finch after a few seconds of silence.

 

“Everything's under control, Finch,” he said as he picked his way through the debris of a brawl, counting bodies. “Is Carter on the way?”

 

“She is. Where's Janice?”

 

Reese frowned when he realized he was coming up one body short. There should be six thugs but he only saw five. He looked up and glanced out the panel windows but didn't see her outside the bar. She'd run to the back, he remembered and he pushed through in that direction.

 

“Mr. Reese?” came Finch's voice again, worry creeping into the question.

 

“Do you have a location on the target?” he asked, passing through the doors into a small kitchen. “She's disappeared,” he added.

 

He didn't see Janice Archibeque or her intended assassin, but he did see a blood trail. He remembered breaking one man's nose and assumed that's where the blood was coming from. The smell of gas caught his nose and he paused as he came abreast of the stove. A scuffle drew his attention and he watched in horror as the assassin pulled Janice out the back, his gun pointed in John's general vicinity. John knew from an earlier encounter that the man's aim was horrifyingly bad but that wouldn't matter.

 

He started to move, to get out of the line of fire, but knew he couldn't clear it in time. The shot sounded loud and clear and, a moment later, the air in front of him exploded as the spark from the shot ignited the leaking gas. He registered Finch's panic stricken voice and wanted to assure the other man that he'd been through worse explosions and survived, but the words wouldn't form. His body was lifted from the floor and he was thrown like a rag doll back into the main bar.

 

***

 

Finch froze as the sound of an explosion ripped through his earpiece. There had been a shot right before, but he didn't think John had said anything about the men he was pursuing having access to anything more sophisticated than small firearms.

 

“John?” he called, ignoring the way his voice nearly cracked.

 

His partner had already encountered a number of difficult situations in their short partnership. This was just one more. There would be a pause and then John would say something infuriating, but he would be alright.

 

“John?” he said again, sitting back down at his station to pull up the camera footage around the bar and John's tracking data.

 

His phone was still on, though the signal was weak and degraded. He gasped when the screens lit up with images of flames whispering inside the building. It looked like the windows had been blown out, but the fire wasn't massive. There was the chance that someone had survived. Wasn't there? There had to be.

 

He shut his eyes against all distraction and just listened. Time ticked away and then he heard it. John was breathing. Or at least someone within two feet of the phone was breathing. It had to be John. Was it laboured? He couldn't tell.

 

He opened his eyes again and looked to the screen. Detective Carter's vehicle came screeching around the corner and the woman jumped out of the vehicle, radio in hand as she called her dispatch. He typed into his keyboard and the audio from her cell broke the quiet of the library.

 

“--send EMS and Fire,” she was saying as she entered the building, slowing only slightly as she did.

 

He heard her pushing debris out of the way and muttering to herself, but the words held no meaning and he waited for anything that would indicate she'd found John. He wished desperately that there'd been a camera in the bar so he could at least attempt to access the feed. Even a distorted view was better than this. Finally he heard her sudden intake of breath.

 

“John,” she breathed and then the scratching and scrabbling intensified as she pushed things out of the way.

 

Finch wanted to scream at her what? What had she found? Was Reese okay? What the hell had happened? As if sensing his frustration, she started speaking.

 

“Finch, I don't know if you can hear me or if you're listening or what, but John doesn't look good,” she said. It sounded like she was dragging something heavy now and he wondered if it was John. “He's unconscious and there's no way I can get him away before backup gets here.” She paused and seemed to be examining something. “I hope you have a good ID on you, John or your old CIA buddies are going to find you real fast.”

 

Finch opened his eyes, not aware that he'd closed them. Carter's words fuelled him and he started typing furiously. He knew John always carried at least one of his fake IDs on him, but wasn't sure which one he'd had. With ID, the authorities shouldn't have to run his fingerprints, but he couldn't be sure. He put an alert in the system to tell him if they did. John would need to stay in a hospital but he was prepared to have him moved to a private hospital under a different name if the wrong people got wind of his incapacitation. It would take careful planning to orchestrate that, but Harold had the basics ready for just such a situation as this.

 

He glanced again at the footage streaming to his screen as first cruisers and then FDNY vehicles started arriving. He tapped into their radio signals and listened in horror as they began coordinating removal of survivors and bodies.

 

***

 

Carter watched silently as Finch limped into the ER, pausing to look around in confusion. His eyes alighted on her and he started toward her. He looked pale and stricken, like he was in shock. She wasn't sure if he'd heard her at the bar, but no one had come busting down the doors looking for John yet, so she supposed that was a good sign.

 

“Where is he?” asked Finch as soon as he was within earshot.

 

“Upstairs in ICU. Come on,” she said, turning for the elevator.

 

“ICU?” asked Finch, frowning like he wasn't entirely sure what the letters stood for. Or like his brain didn't want to supply the answer.

 

“He's got some cracked ribs, but by some miracle there were no internal injuries. He has second degree burns on his arm and part of his side from the blast. Neither of those are immediately life threatening. But he hit his head pretty hard and the doctors are talking about possible brain damage.”

 

Finch drew in a sharp breath and his face did a funny jump that Carter supposed was his version of concern. She'd never been able to read much in either man's expression before now and she wasn't sure why she thought this situation would be any different. The elevator trip was silent.

 

When the double doors opened into ICU, Finch stood still for a moment, his eyes closed like he was preparing himself for the worst case scenario. Carter stood next to him, holding the door and glaring anyone down who might intrude.

 

Finally, he took a halting step forward and then another and Carter led the way to John's room. Nurse Jenkins was there checking John's vitals and finishing getting him settled. She glanced up and smiled at the two of them.

 

“Detective Carter,” she said in greeting. “He's stable now. The doctor should be back in a few minutes to give you an update.”

 

“Thank you,” said Carter before gesturing to Finch. “This is,” she started but slowed when she realized she didn't know if Finch would want to use a different name. John's ID had said he was John Denton.

 

“Harold Carruthers,” he supplied, cutting in smoothly but not returning the smile. “I'm John's partner,” he added, face straight and letting the nurse make her own assumptions.

 

Her face softened and Carter knew exactly how she interpreted the statement. Seeing the way Finch was staring at John as she watched Nurse Jenkins depart, Carter suddenly wasn't sure she was necessarily wrong.

 

When the door shut, Finch moved to John's side and stared down at the man. All told, he didn't actually look that bad. The nurses had gotten him cleaned up so he no longer had the grime and dirt covering him like he had back at the bar. There were only a few minor scrapes on his face where debris had hit him. The gash on his left temple was covered in neat bandages. The blood from that had definitely looked worse at the scene. Gauze wrapped around his right arm from shoulder to below his elbow where Carter assumed he'd turned away from the blast. She knew that there were more bandages on his side, but the hospital gown covered that. An IV line snaked out of his uninjured hand and two bags hung above him, one saline and the other antibiotics.

 

Carter expected Finch to take John's hand in his own, but he simply continued staring. Startled, Carter realized that the few times she'd seen the two men together, with the exception of the first time during the robbery at evidence lockup and the second when John had been shot, she'd never seen the two men touch. They'd been close more than once and the idea of personal space seemed to have a different meaning for them, but they didn't exchange the casual pats that partners normally did.

 

Finch winced minutely and pulled up a chair, sitting close to the bed with one hand resting next to John's. Carter was close to asking about the two of them but was stopped when the door opened and the doctor walked in.

 

He looked up from the chart in his hands and took in the scene before him in a glance.

 

“Detective Carter,” he greeted, reaching to shake her hand. “Mr. Carruthers,” he said, nodding at Finch. “I'm Dr. Ryan.” He checked one last thing on the chart before tucking it under his arm and giving them his full attention. “I have good news and bad. Mr. Denton's condition is stable right now. The burn and ribs are both non-life-threatening and should heal without much trouble.” He looked at Finch directly. “I did notice it looked like this isn't his first experience with broken ribs?”

 

Finch looked up from where he'd been staring at John's face seeming to will the man to consciousness. “He served in the Army,” he said. “I know he sustained a few injuries during his time in uniform.”

 

Dr. Ryan nodded and looked down to make a brief note in John's chart.

 

“What concerns me,” he continued, his gaze returning to the two of them and moving between them easily. “Is the head injury. There was some swelling in his brain and we're monitoring in case we need to relieve the pressure.”

 

“You're saying he may have brain damage?” asked Finch.

 

Carter glanced to where their hands were so close, where Finch's fingers were twitching like he wanted to take John's hand but wouldn't let himself.

 

“We'll know more when he wakes up,” said the doctor. Carter closed her eyes. It was the kind of non-answer doctors gave when they just didn't know. Or didn't want to tell you the truth. “The MRI looked promising,” he continued. “At this point we're cautiously optimistic.”

 

“How long until he wakes up?” asked Carter, frowning at John lying so still in the bed. She watched Finch slowly tuck his fingers under John's and link them, like he was afraid John would pull away from him even in his current state. It seemed like such an intimate moment even in that one act, Carter had to look away.

 

Dr. Ryan was looking at her, unaware of what was happening on the bed. He furrowed his brow as he considered the question and the medical evidence. “It's hard to say. It could be tomorrow, in a few days or next week. As long as the swelling goes down, I would expect it to happen in the next few days.”

 

“And if he doesn't?” asked Finch, his voice quiet but his gaze steady on the doctor.

 

The doctor nodded, as if he had been expecting the question. “If he doesn't wake within a week, we'll do more tests to try to determine why. But we're far from that point yet, Mr. Carruthers.” He stood straighter and looked around again. “Now, if you have any more questions, Nurse Jenkins will be happy to answer them. I'll be checking in on Mr. Denton again in the next few hours.”

 

Finch turned back to John, effectively dismissing the doctor.

 

“Thank you, Dr. Ryan,” said Carter, shaking his hand again.

 

“Detective. Mr. Carruthers.”

 

Carter escorted the doctor out before turning back to Finch. She watched him as he stared at John, apparently lost in thought. She felt like an intruder. She wanted to leave them in peace, but had a few questions that only he could answer.

 

She moved to stand on the opposite side of the bed and Finch looked up to her, his brows raised and his eyes tired. “Yes, Detective?”

 

“We found Janice Archibeque behind the building, bruised but okay. A,” she paused as she consulted her notes. “Arnold Hass was also there. They'd both been knocked out by the blast. I've arrested Mr. Hass and Janice was released an hour ago.”

 

Finch nodded. “Good.”

 

“I don't suppose you want to tell me how you knew he'd been hired to kill her? Even she didn't know what she'd stumbled into.”

 

Finch gave her that small, secret smile that looked so much like John's. “We have our sources.”

 

“Uh huh. Well, any evidence that happens to find its way onto my desk would be appreciated.” Finch nodded his understanding and returned his attention to his partner.

 

Carter sighed quietly, deciding she wasn't likely to get anything more from him even if John were awake.

 

“Give me a call if anything changes. I can come back and sit with him in the morning if you'd like.”

 

“Thank you, Detective.”

 

“You need anything before I go?”

 

“Thank you, no.”

 

She glanced once more at John's peaceful features and then at Finch's fingers wrapped gently around John's. They'd be fine, she decided.

 

“Good night,” she said, turning quietly to leave.

 

***

 

Harold watched Detective Carter leave the hospital room, grateful that she'd been there to help John, but just as glad to have the room to himself. He listened to the machine beeping out John's heart rate for long minutes, reassured by the sound that John was still alive, still breathing. He kept expecting John to open his eyes, smile sheepishly at him and walk out of the room. But he continued to lay there.

 

“John,” he said, leaning toward the other man and squeezing his fingers. “I don't know if you can hear me, John, but...” he stalled, unsure of what to say. He was here? That much was evident and he wasn't sure if that would make John feel better or worse. That he couldn't die? He wasn't really in any danger of that, or so the doctor had said. “I need you, John,” he finally admitted. “I can't do this on my own. I can't do it without you.”

 

If asked, Harold could not have said if he meant the work with the Machine or life.

 

***

 

Hours later, Harold woke to his phone beeping insistently at him and his spine even stiffer than normal after prolonged time at an awkward angle and without movement. He first looked to John's face, but the man's eyes remained stubbornly closed and his face passive. A check of the heart monitor told Harold that nothing had really changed in his condition. He managed to pull his phone from his pocket without dropping it which, all told, was a small miracle since he was still gripping John's hand and had to reach across his body to get the device.

 

He groaned softly to himself when he saw the readout.

 

“We have another number,” he said, watching John's face and hoping that the statement might break through whatever fog John was under and bring him back to Harold. “Someone needs your help, John.” _I need your help_ , he mentally added.

 

Harold rubbed at his sore neck, half expecting larger hands to bat his own away and dig thumbs exactly into the spot where the muscles had seized and ease the pain. It had startled Harold the first time John had done that, his hands hesitant and Harold had frozen under the ministrations. He preferred to keep his distance from others, both figuratively and in person, but John had managed to slowly break that barrier down between them. Now John's hands were there sometimes even before he'd consciously realized that he'd tied the muscles into knots. Before this moment, he never would have thought he'd miss such a small touch.

 

He considered ignoring the number in front of him in favour of staying with John, but knew he couldn't. Even though John was incapacitated, they had allies now. He may have brought John into the picture as a single asset, but John had recruited others to their cause, even if they didn't know exactly what they helped do. John would want him to continue on, to use them as he could. Belatedly, he wondered if John had recruited them in case of just such an incident as this. It sounded like something the man would do.

 

“I have to take care of this,” he said. He searched for any kind of response but, of course, there was nothing.

 

He stood, grimacing as his back joined his neck in protesting the harsh treatment. Detective Carter entered the room as he was stepping gingerly around the bed. He glanced at the clock on the wall to discover he'd managed to sleep the remaining few hours of the night and into the morning.

 

“Ah, Detective Carter. I need to step out for a few hours. Would you mind sitting with John until I return?”

 

Carter looked him up and down, considering his words. Harold knew she'd noticed his need to be close to John the night before and had been grateful she hadn't mentioned anything. Now she was taking the assumptions gleaned from those brief minutes to determine his motives now.

 

“Did your source tell you someone new is in danger?” she asked.

 

Harold just managed to keep his gaze steady under her scrutiny. The danger of getting so close to her or Detective Fusco lay in either one of them finding out about the machine. Harold knew John would be the first to admit it was much more likely that Detective Carter would make the leap in logic first and with far fewer hints. And she'd had many more than a few hints.

 

“I have business to attend to,” Harold said. “Unfortunately, it waits for no man, Mr. Reese included.”

 

Detective Carter didn't seem convinced, but she let the matter drop. Harold gave John one last glance, still hoping against hope that the other man would sit up in bed and tell him that it was all just a joke and Harold really did need to lighten up. When he didn't, Harold turned back for the door and left without another word.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

 

John's awareness returned slowly as his conscious mind drifted in a drug-induced haze. He knew by the kinds of drugs that he was in a hospital somewhere. The quality of the drugs suggested he was in a country with advanced medical care readily available. He knew that time passed, but he wasn't aware enough yet to know just how much. He kept his body still and his mind calm so that his vitals wouldn't spike with a return to consciousness. It always paid to be aware of one's surroundings before those surroundings could bite you in the ass.

 

He was aware of dull pain first. It took concentration, but he finally determined the main source to be his head and his arm with a few other varied points. His chest hurt vaguely like he might have cracked ribs. With those kinds of injuries, John was betting there had been an explosion. He couldn't really remember the explosion, but he did think he remembered someone's voice in his ear, concern in their voice.

 

Sound came next. He could hear a woman's voice talking a few feet away. He was only hearing one side of the conversation, so he assumed she was on a cell phone. He catalogued facts in his brain: she was speaking English—New York accented English more specifically—which put good chances that he was in the United States. Her responses were clipped and direct. She was an authority figure of some kind.

 

He chanced opening his eyes and saw her to his left. Her back was to him as she looked out the window while talking. Her back was straight, her posture ingrained. Former military. She turned slightly and he could make out the Detective shield clipped to her belt. NYPD. So he was in New York. How had he gotten here? The last he remembered, he was in...somewhere that was not New York City. He blinked rapidly as he tried to remember where his last mission had been to. Was it Poland? Slovakia? No, that had been months or years ago. He remembered South Africa and that had definitely been after Eastern Europe.

 

 _I need to contact the agency_ , he thought, but that felt wrong. Was he still with the agency? Surely he wouldn't have left and come back to New York. Or had he? Everything felt wrong and he couldn't remember what had ever felt right. He knew one thing for sure, though: he needed to get out of this hospital so he could figure it out on his own.

 

He didn't hear a heart monitor, though he could feel the pads on his chest. That must mean they had the monitor muted, but he knew the nurses would be watching it for any changes in his condition. He needed to subdue the police officer, but wasn't sure how steady he would be on his feet. There was no telling how long he'd been unconscious and he didn't want to alert the woman that he was awake by passing out behind her.

 

As if in answer to his thoughts, he heard monitors start screaming from out in the hall. Someone wasn't doing very well. Footsteps echoed down the hall as nurses ran to and fro, trying to stabilise which ever patient was crashing. That meant the nurse's station would be down to a single person and those were his best odds.

 

He waited as the woman told whoever was on the phone to hold on and walked over to close the door. She returned to the conversation as she glanced down over him and he held very still.

 

“No, Finch, that was someone down the hall. John's fine,” she assured.

 

An image of a mousy man with glasses jumped before his eyes but he pushed that away. Just because he recognized the name of who was talking didn't make it any better for his chances of escape and he definitely needed to get out of here.

 

The detective returned to her position by the window, lowering her voice and continued talking. John slowly moved his right hand across his body to his left and pulled the IV line out. That was the easiest part. He watched the woman as he tried to decide if it would be better to take the EKG electrodes off first and then subdue her or the other way around. She was former military and she looked like she could hold her own in a fight.

 

He glanced up and saw that the readout was on the same side of the bed as she was. He followed the lines with his eyes and decided he should have enough slack in the line to reach her without getting tangled in the line. He'd worry about pulling the individual pads off once he dealt with her.

 

He was able to sit upright with relative ease and watched the detective's back for signs that she was aware of him. John saw her reflection in the mirror first catch in surprised disbelief then switch to excitement.

 

“John,” she said and there was suddenly a flurry of sound from the other end of the phone, none of which he could understand.

 

He moved swiftly, trusting his legs would hold him. He grabbed her by the shoulders then moved his grip to her head. He held her firmly so that his arms were squeezing the arteries in the side of her neck and blocking blood flow to the brain. She gasped for air and managed to say his name before going limp in his arms. Laying her down gently, he picked up the phone and listened briefly as another man—the mousy one?--yelled things into the phone that made no sense.

 

He dropped the phone, pulled the electrodes from the pads on his chest and headed to the door. He could still hear commotion a few doors away and the distinct steady sound that meant someone's heart had stopped. That room, it seemed, had not turned the heart monitor off.

 

He approached the door quickly but cautiously and peeked out of the crack the detective had left. No one was coming running because his monitor had stopped transmitting and for that, at least, he was grateful. He left the room, padding barefoot but still silent down the hall and then down a flight of stairs. On the floor below, he made his way down the hall until he reached a door that said “Locker Room.” Doctor's were always carrying around extra clothes and he though it very likely he'd find something in his size quickly.

 

A quick search turned up scrub pants, slip on shoes, a jacket and ball cap. Despite wondering how bad he'd been hit, he didn't undo the bandages to check his injuries, trusting instead that the hospital had taken good care of them. He headed back down the hallway, bound for a side entrance that he could sneak out of. It only took a few minutes to reach the ground floor and find such an exit. He was passing a shorter man with a limp, his eyes down when the other man suddenly gasped and looked him dead in the eye.

 

***

 

Harold observed impassively as Detective Fusco arrested Jonathan Ortega, the man who had come perilously close to killing Kenneth Mann, the number the machine had given him the day before. It had taken much longer to deal with this case than he would have preferred. He and Detective Carter had been taking turns sitting with John for the last four days and Harold had learned after the first case, one Josephine Simmons, that he preferred keeping his laptop with him so that he could coordinate assets from John's side. Some things, though, required a personal touch.

 

As he was leaving Fusco to his work and his reports and the driver was taking him the short drive back to the hospital, he punched the button in his phone that would connect him to Detective Carter. She answered on the second ring and immediately asked him how his business meeting had gone. He would have to either take John home soon and monitor him from there or take her off babysitting duty. She was every bit as observant as Harold anticipated and that was beginning to cause more of a problem.

 

They spoke for a few minutes before the sound of monitors frantically beeping out a failing status started passing over the line and he nearly jumped down her throat in his panic that John had taken a sudden turn for the worse. She assured him that wasn't the case and he heard the sound get closer as she closed the door then fade to a barely there background sound as she returned to the other side of the room, likely near the window.

 

He breathed a ragged sigh of relief as the images of John's too pale face from when he'd been shot overlaying with the passive features he'd been staring at the last few days began to fade.

 

“John,” breathed Carter, almost startled.

 

“Detective?” he asked, not sure what to expect now.

 

There was a scuffle and a gasp before he heard what sounded like her struggling to breath. Had the CIA found John and was now dispensing with Detective Carter? Surely even they wouldn't be so bold. But then why would she have called John's name? He called her again, a bit louder and then louder still when she didn't respond.

 

He heard a thump like a body hitting the floor then silence.

 

“Detective? John?” he asked, not daring to hope but wanting it to be him. There was silence on the other end and he motioned for the driver to go faster. They were only minutes away from the hospital and he needed to be there, to see what was happening.

 

The line went dead and Harold could have screamed in frustration if his throat hadn't swollen shut from worry. The remaining few blocks seemed to take longer than they ever had before and then they were stopping outside the side entrance that Harold had taken to using instead of the main entrance. He limped inside as fast as he could and turned left toward ICU only to see John walking calmly toward him in scrubs and a wool jacket with a baseball cap pulled over his eyes.

 

“John,” he whispered, stopping immediately and reaching for the other man.

 

Something dark flashed in John's eyes and Harold was suddenly thrown back against the wall, John's body trapping him in place as the taller man searched Harold's face for something. He didn't say anything, just looked.

 

“John,” Harold repeated, letting his emotions play plainly across his face for once. “John, it's me.”

 

John frowned, uncertain and his eyes lost a bit of focus and then Harold found himself stumbling as John released him. His friend was down the hall before Harold could pull himself together enough to say anything.

 

“John, wait!” he called, forcing his body to follow John.

 

John didn't even look back and, by the time Harold rounded the corner John had disappeared around, the other man was gone, like he'd never been there. Something stung at his eyes as he realized the man he had just faced was not his John, but whatever the CIA had made John, the man who would kill anyone who got in the way of his objective.

 

He was pulled from his thoughts when his phone rang and the hospital's caller ID appeared. “Yes?” he asked and found he was slightly out of breath.

 

“Mr. Carruthers,” said Nurse Jenkins, a slight tremor in her voice.

 

“John is gone,” he stated, turning and walking back toward the ICU. “I just saw him leave. Is Detective Carter alright?” he asked.

 

Nurse Jenkins paused as her train of thought was derailed. “Yes, sir. I mean, she will be. We found her unconscious in the room, but she wasn't hurt.”

 

“I'll be there in a moment,” he said and hung up the phone. He sagged in the elevator as it took him to the correct floor, unsure what he should do from here. One step at a time, he decided. He would take it one step at a time.

 

Standing straighter, he blew a calming breath and then stepped out of the elevator with a confident step.

 

***

 

John went underground as soon as he could, preferring the tunnels of the subway system and the various utility ducts to the street. Here there were no cameras to see him and automatically run facial recognition and the only people he encountered were the ones like himself who preferred to remain unseen.

 

It took him nearly an hour to cross town but he was confident that no one had followed him and that they weren't likely to search this far away. He went topside long enough to find a thrift shop and trade his expensive wool jacket for a beat up knit hoodie and the scrub pants for jeans and a pair of serviceable boots. He'd found a wallet in the jacket pocket so could even spring for a pair of socks. His entire shopping trip took him seven minutes and he was back underground, hiding in an old maintenance hatch a hundred yards or so down the subway tunnel.

 

John leaned his head against the concrete wall and took a minute to breathe. He was in New York City, a place he knew reasonably well. He knew he had a concussion so couldn't let himself sleep too long. While in the store, he'd had a chance to look at his head wound. All told, it wasn't that bad and he'd removed the bandages and tossed them and the towels he'd used to clean the dry blood off the side of his head into a storm drain where he knew they'd be washed away.

 

He gingerly felt his ribs and found that two of them were cracked as he'd suspected. That might hinder him in a close hand-to-hand fight, but not overly so. It was the burns which bothered him. They started just below his right elbow, travelled up to his shoulder and continued along part of his back. He still couldn't remember the explosion, but he was assuming he had been close to it and thrown back. The nurses had apparently recently changed the bandages since he could still feel the analgesic burn cream they had used. He knew he could fight through the pain as he had when he'd subdued the detective at the hospital, but he would have to be careful he didn't break the scabs or allow them to get infected.

 

He glanced around himself automatically, checking for threats before sitting straighter and closing his eyes. He let his mind wander back to the explosion, trying to remember what he'd been doing. Was he on a mission? Who was his contact here? If he was in New York, he was behind enemy lines and he couldn't count on the CIA to bail him out.

 

He frowned. There was something else about the agency, something that told him he couldn't count on their help even if he had been overseas. Where was Kara? While he certainly didn't expect her to be waiting at his bedside, she would have been somewhere nearby that she could have tracked him down. Or would she? Something nagged at the back of his brain, something that was saying Kara wouldn't be there, the same way he couldn't trust the CIA.

 

Opening his eyes, he brought himself back to the present and checked his surroundings. The amnesia was probably caused by the head injury. He wasn't sure how much time he'd lost since he wasn't even sure what the last thing was that he remembered. He would wait this out, see if his memory came back. He could hide among the eight million people in New York City, among the forgotten and the unseen. The idea was familiar, felt right.

 

He would wait. And if images of a mousy man in glasses who walked with a limp kept intruding...well, that could be pushed down until he figured out what was going on with himself.

 

***

 

“Are you telling me,” started Carter, leaning toward Harold over her coffee. “That John's running around my city like some kind of deranged Jason Bourne?” She looked around to make sure none of the other cafe patrons had heard her. “And you can't find him?”

 

“He's hardly deranged,” commented Harold, though he wasn't so sure of that himself. It had been over a day since John had run from the hospital. One of the doctors had reported his locker broken into and Harold had tracked his credit cards, but John knew better. The doctor had reported he'd had over a hundred dollars in cash and Harold was quite certain John had taken that and dumped everything else.

 

Carter rolled her eyes and leaned back. “But you still can't find him.”

 

“He's very good at hiding, Detective. You may remember that he's very familiar with the city's homeless after living amongst them for some time.” On that assumption, Harold had pulled up cameras near the various homeless hot spots in town and had them running facial recognition all night, but nothing had hit. There were simply too many places where the homeless tended to congregate and what cameras were in those areas weren't usually functional.

 

“No kidding.” She sighed and rubbed at her temples. “So what? We just have to wait until he does something noteworthy again? If he's hiding, he won't be in subways beating up wannabe arms dealers.”

 

“No, he won't. I'm hoping that he'll come to his senses and contact us at some point.”

 

“And until then? We just let him wander the city? What if he tries to contact the CIA? I'm sure they'd love it if he handed himself in. Heck, they might even be able to brainwash him into working for them again.”

 

“If he were going to contact the CIA, I think he would have done that by now.”

 

“And what makes you think he hasn't?”

 

Harold raised an eyebrow, surprised that Detective Carter still doubted his resources at this point. Although hacking Agent Snow's phone hadn't been as difficult as he might have thought it to be. He was confident that, if the CIA heard anything about John, Mark Snow would be one of the first to know.

 

“Yeah, okay, whatever,” continued Carter, holding up her hands in surrender. “I probably don't want to know about whatever it is you're doing anyway.” She sighed and let her hands fall onto the table. “So what now? Did you just come here to tell me that we've got a whole lot of nothing?”

 

“Actually,” said Harold and he actually felt bad for what he was about to do. He pushed a photo of a smiling teen across the table. “She needs our help.”

 

Carter laughed mirthlessly. “You're kidding, right? John's missing and you're giving me a picture.

 

“Unfortunately, Detective, my resources wait for no man.” He was actually going to meet Fusco in an hour because the machine had kicked out two numbers during the night. The only reason he'd waited this long was because he wanted to make sure the two numbers weren't connected. As much as he might think their two detectives should be told that they were on the same side, he respected John's request that they remain in the dark about each other for now.

 

Carter stared hard at him and he could feel her deciding if she should ask about his mysterious resources again or not. Finally, she pulled the photo closer and flipped it over to where he'd written the girl's home and school addresses. She threw some bills on the table to cover her coffee and left with only a mild glare in his direction, though he couldn't say if it was for the situation or as a reminder to find John.

 

***

 

John stared at the pharmacy across the street as he considered his next move. It had been three days since he'd escaped from the hospital and he was starting to get his memory back in bits and pieces, but it was slow to happen and he still wasn't entirely sure where he stood with anyone. He'd kept his injuries clean for the most part, but he needed to change the dressings and he wanted some antibiotics. The bottom edge on his back had begun to hurt more and the skin was warmer to the touch like the beginning stage of an infection. As large as the burn was, he could not afford an infection.

 

He'd come twenty blocks downtown to this place, sure that no one would find where he'd been hiding and he was ready to change locations as needed. Under normal circumstances he'd have just broken in and been done with it, but something had held him back. He didn't have any gloves to mask his fingerprints and he knew flags would go up the minute they hit the system.

 

He needed the drugs, though. Without them, he'd either die in the street from sepsis or he'd pass out somewhere and EMTs would be called and they'd run his fingerprints then. If it came to that, he'd be too weak to put up any kind of fight and he'd be stuck with whoever came for him, be it friend or foe. His eyes followed the line of the building he was hiding behind. It was a run down apartment building and he might just be able to hide in one of the units and watch to see who came.

 

Nodding to himself, he pulled the baseball cap down over his eyes. Three days without a razor had produced a silvery scruff of a beard that would mask his features somewhat and he'd thrown a ragged blue overcoat over his hoodie. He crossed the street, a rock in hand and threw it into the glass window. Alarms started blaring immediately, but he calmly stepped through his new door and headed for the first aid aisle.

 

Within two minutes he had gauze, bandages, ointment and antibiotics to hold him for a month. He also threw in things with street value to cover his actual purpose. Three minutes after he'd broken the window, he was back out and walking calmly between buildings, heading in the opposite direction he'd come.

 

He could hear sirens approaching and figured he had an hour before he needed to be back to see the action. After all, CSU had to arrive, find his prints and run them before anyone would know that this was anything but a drug run.

 

***

 

Harold turned to stare at the screen as he heard the call for a break in at a pharmacy. He'd taken to listening to the police scanner since John had disappeared in case there was any news of him. While a break in at a pharmacy wasn't necessarily John's doing, he knew the man would have to find something to treat his burns to prevent infection. His hand hovered over his phone, ready to call Detective Carter or Fusco to check the scene but he paused. Would John even still be there? Furthermore, if he were hiding, surely he would be halfway across the city by now.

 

If the CIA were watching either of them, their interest might be piqued when they responded to a scene that was definitely not a homicide. He would wait to call them. Instead, he pulled up footage of the crime scene. There was only a single camera in the area and the angle it showed gave him very little information. He hacked the system and found the recorded footage from when the crime had occurred. He could just make out a figure crossing the street, his stride confident as he threw something, probably a rock into the window.

 

The resolution was nowhere near enough to give him facial recognition, but the way the figure moved, the easy grace and confident stride...he was sure it was John. Harold grabbed his laptop and headed downstairs. John may be long gone, but he might glean something from the scene, from what the cops were saying to each other.

 

It took thirty minutes to get there and he parked his car half a block away in shadow. The windows were tinted so the cops wouldn't see him watching them. It was child's play to clone their phones and get ears in. He listened to the conversations and found a half dozen bored officers who would have preferred to be anywhere but here cleaning up what they thought was some addict getting a fresh stash.

 

He wanted to scream at them to give a full list of what had been taken instead of just talking in “this” and “that” and “those.” When a supervisor arrived, his wish was granted. One of the officers gave a report including items missing: so much of various controlled substances which he didn't really care about and half a dozen bottles of antibiotics, first aid supplies including bandages, gauze and burn ointment. There was no doubt in his mind that this had been John's handy work and that his friend had only taken the controlled substances to throw off the authorities or sell for quick cash.

 

He pressed Detective Carter's speed dial as he listened with half an ear to the discussion between the two CSU techs who'd been sent to process the scene.

 

“Carter.”

 

“Detective,” he greeted, glancing down at his screen. GPS said she was home for once. “I just thought I would let you know that our mutual friend surfaced briefly tonight.” He heard her move into a different room, likely away from her son.

 

“Where?”

 

“At a pharmacy in Queens,” he said and paused as the techs started talking excitedly. Apparently they'd found John's prints and just run them through the system. “Are you still listed as a contact whenever his fingerprints are found?”

 

“Probably. Why?”

 

“You're about to get a call,” he said cryptically before hanging up the phone. He kept the microphone on her phone active and chuckled to himself as she said some unkind things to the dead line.

 

He shifted in his seat, getting comfortable as he waited to see what would happen.

 

***

 

It had taken twenty minutes for John to loop back around and enter the apartment building. Two minutes after that he was in a vacant unit with a decent vantage of the pharmacy six floors below. He'd managed to get himself in place just in time to see the dark sedan pull up down the street and park. No one had gotten out and the windows were too dark to see who was inside. He made a mental note of the license plate and continued to watch. He immediately wished he had listening equipment so that he could hear the conversations going on below him and absently scratched at his right ear, almost expecting to hear what he needed automatically.

 

Silence remained and he sat down so he was harder to see from street level and watched. The CSU techs suddenly got excited and started showing their fingerprint scanners. They'd found his prints, it seemed. Almost immediately the officer in charge pulled out a cell phone and made a call, checking the screen for the number. It would seem there was a contact number any time his prints were found.

 

He frowned and considered that. Would it be the detective from the hospital? The CIA wouldn't need NYPD to alert them since they'd have an automatic alert whenever his prints hit the system. The FBI maybe? He would think they would have the same sort of system.

 

He waited for another half hour, one eye watching the sedan and noting that whoever was driving was still inside. It wasn't a company car, he knew. The CIA tended to drive SUVs, especially when tracking someone like him. But why would they be tracking him? He still wasn't sure why he didn't trust the agency he'd been part of for so many years, but that same nag he'd felt when he first woke up in the hospital was still there.

 

He sat straighter when an SUV pulled around the corner, though he noted this one had government plates. Again, not the CIA. A dark haired man stepped out of the driver's side and John had him pegged as FBI before he flashed the badge. The woman from the hospital stepped out of the passenger seat. She didn't seem happy to be with the FBI and he watched her lag slightly behind. She looked around and spotted the sedan before checking something on her phone. John's fingers itched to check a phone of his own to see what she saw and he scratched his ear to help relieve it.

 

The fed and the detective spoke with the officer in charge and the other officers on scene. The detective seemed to be looking around like she expected to see something the others couldn't. She carefully avoided looking at the sedan, so he knew she wasn't watching for the driver. Did she expect to see him for some reason. He frowned at the thought. Why would he make contact with an NYPD detective? While she had been waiting at the hospital and the phone conversation seemed to indicate that she knew him, he couldn't see any reason why he would be in contact with her.

 

He watched them talk for ten minutes before another black SUV rounded the opposite corner. There was absolutely nothing remarkable about the vehicle and it had normal plates, but he knew the agency was here. John checked the roof tops and saw two snipers setting up perches. Why would the CIA want him dead? When he looked back down, Mark was exiting the vehicle and approaching the detective and the FBI agent.

 

John took a shaky breath, suddenly scared. He was being hunted by the CIA, FBI, NYPD and some mysterious fourth party and he had absolutely no idea why. He didn't trust any of the people down there, even though he knew Mark and apparently knew the detective. He scratched absently at his ear again, wishing for...what? Someone to talk to? He had never been a very good conversationalist outside of a mission and his backup had always been Kara.

 

He stared down at Mark, at his friend's face and found his mind drifting back to another time and another country. He and Kara had been somewhere in the Middle East...Morocco maybe? They were given a new assignment and Mark had pulled him aside, said she had sold out her country.

 

He suddenly remembered Ordos, remembered her shooting him and realizing that they'd both been set up, that the government had been tying up loose ends. He pushed himself away from the window. He knew why he didn't trust the CIA anymore. They'd tried to kill him.

 

Deciding he wouldn't get any more information out of this, he headed downstairs, going carefully in case there were other agents canvassing the surrounding areas. There had been a utility tunnel behind this building. He slipped inside easily and left the area. He needed time to think.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

 

Carter sat down next to Finch, watching his face carefully. It had been two days since John's pharmacy run and she'd spent most of it watching an FBI/CIA pissing contest over who would collar John. The FBI insisted that he was wanted for multiple crimes across state lines while the CIA insisted that, since he was one of theirs, he was their responsibility. She honestly wasn't sure why they'd included her in the conversations except maybe to serve as referee. When the break in hadn't produced any tangible leads, the agents had eventually disappeared, though she had noticed she had a CIA fan club again.

 

Slipping them had become child's play to her. She wondered what Finch thought of the battle for his friend. She wasn't sure what the two men meant to each other, but she could tell that they'd become close, even since the first time she'd watched them interact during the evidence locker break in.

 

“Any news?” she asked, hoping Finch had had better luck than she.

 

Finch looked up and she was surprised to see that he had circles around his eyes, like he'd spent the last week staring at screens and forgetting to sleep.

 

“Nothing,” he said and his voice was gravelly. Was he even eating, she wondered.

 

“You look like hell,” she stated, deciding for the direct approach. He raised an eyebrow, pushing his glasses up his face. “You know you won't do John any good if you make yourself sick looking for him. He'd want you to take care of yourself.”

 

“Thank you for your concern, Detective, but I'm fine.”

 

She snorted. “Right. Whatever you say.” She waited for a moment, expecting him to push a photograph across the table. “Is there anything else?”

 

He blinked and looked up from where he'd been staring into space. She frowned, genuinely worried about the man. He shook his head and stood.

 

“My resources are surprisingly quiet right now. I'll let you know if I hear anything more.”

 

Finch stood and Carter wanted to pull him back down, to insist that he talk to her about this. She may have started out trying to arrest John, but he had become her friend now, too. God knew these two seemed to need as many friends as they could get. Instead, she watched him leave the small diner and disappear in the crowd of people.

 

Her attention drifted, wandering over the crowd outside and across the street. Eight million people living in the city and they were looking for just one. She watched as a man with John's build pushed off the side of the building opposite the diner and started down the street in the opposite direction Finch had gone. He was wearing a faded old hoodie and he desperately needed a shower and a shave but he could have been John.

 

Carter sat straighter, staring hard at the man. No, it was John. She stood suddenly, pulling out her phone and calling Finch. She was outside in a heartbeat, looking in the direction she'd seen John walk, but he was gone. She knew better than to try and follow. He was CIA trained to dodge a tail and was much better than the ones who'd been assigned to follow her.

 

Finch answered on the second ring. “Detective,” he started, sounding as tired as he'd looked.

 

“Finch, come back now. I saw him.”

 

There was a pause and then the line was dead. In less than a minute, the shorter man was standing next to her, looking in the same direction she was.

 

“Where?”

 

His face had lit up and the exhaustion was gone. Carter moved a few steps over so they were out of the way of the pedestrians and pointed where she'd seen John.

 

“There. He was watching us,” she said. “He walked away after you left.”

 

“Did he see you watching him?”

 

Carter closed her eyes. Of course. “Probably. Or he thought I was watching him. Damn, Finch, I just barely saw him. I wasn't really watching anything, but he must have thought I made him.”

 

Finch smiled up at her. “This is good news, Detective. If he's following us, he may be remembering. Tell me everything you saw and I'll see what I can find.”

 

***

 

Harold wanted to run up the stairs in his excitement of the news about John, but slowed his pace in deference to his injury. He'd never wished for an elevator in the building as much as he did now. Once he was there his system seemed to take forever to boot up and he found himself fiddling with things on his desk and looking around the room distractedly, almost expecting John to materialize in his chair and smile at Harold with a sly comment about not having faith.

 

He shook his head at the image and turned back to the screens. A few minutes of typing pulled up all of the cameras on the street by the diner and Harold had them all cued to run simultaneously beginning when he'd sat down. He stared intently from screen to screen, searching for the familiar figure but saw nothing for a long moment.

 

He noted Detective Carter arriving and searched harder, thinking John may have followed her. As he was about to give up, he saw the hint of movement by the corner Carter had pointed out. His eyes started to sting as he kept his gaze glued to the image, not even daring to blink. John's face peeked from behind the corner, his attention on Harold's back as computer-Harold limped slowly down the street.

 

John glanced back at the diner, then suddenly turned and began walking calmly in the other direction, his head bowed slightly and his hands stuffed in the pockets of a faded black sweatshirt.

 

“John,” whispered Harold, his hand reaching for the screen without thought. Harold started when his fingers touched the screen and he pulled it back, looking around an empty room in embarrassment.

 

He started typing furiously, pulling up camera feeds and putting a search program together to try to follow John's path. Time passed as he continued to add data points and his excitement grew that he might actually be able to find his friend.

 

He watched the man double back on himself once, twice and a third time until he suddenly turned a corner and was gone. Harold just barely stopped himself from shouting at the screen as his fingers moved faster across the keyboard, looking for something—anything—that would tell him where John had disappeared to. When he had searched all of the cameras within four blocks of the spot he'd last seen John, he pulled up city planning for the entire area.

 

The answer stared him in the face and he wanted to bang his head onto the desk. There was utility access between two buildings that he was quite sure John would have found his way into. He pushed away from the desk, disgusted with himself that it had taken him this long to figure that out, especially knowing John's proclivities for forbidden access points when he was hiding. He'd run into the exact same problems when he'd been tracking John before their first meeting.

 

He was back to square one. He sat back up. Or was he? John had clearly found Detective Carter. Why? Was he starting to remember? Harold's presence had certainly caught his attention, though whether that was recognition of their friendship or their run in at the hospital, Harold couldn't say. He knew which option he hoped for, but he had to be realistic.

 

He hesitated and then started typing again, pulling up everything around the 8th precinct. Detective Carter's GPS tracking data gave him a time frame and he began searching again for that familiar face. It took nearly an hour of searching and he was close to giving up when he saw that familiar form sliding down a fire escape just as Carter was leaving. Harold laughed softly to himself. Of course John had gone up. He always preferred the high vantage when he was tailing a subject and that certainly wouldn't change just because he had forgotten his recent history.

 

His energy renewed, Harold began typing the code that would search all rooftop cameras for John and take a closer look at anyone who might be coming down from a higher perch.

 

***

 

John stared in silence at the grave marker in front of him.  
  


_Donald Hayworth_

_Beloved Son and Brother_

_b 1956 d 1984_

 

The name and dates meant absolutely nothing to him, but he'd been drawn to this marker as he passed the cemetery in his wanderings. The ground was damp from recent rain but hadn't been disturbed recently. Of course, someone good at hiding their tracks could have been here yesterday and there would be little trace. Knowing his own skill, he could have been here yesterday and no one would have been the wiser if he so desired.

 

“ _If it's anything like the ones I used to bury...”_ he whispered to himself, hearing the words echoed in a memory that felt like a lifetime ago. He cocked his head to the side, considering. He let his mind wander, thinking of those words but was met by his own foggy recollections. He'd said those words to someone he cared for but didn't want to know that he was still burying packages.

 

Glancing around one last time and finding no one in the area, he bent down and started digging with the shovel he'd borrowed from the maintenance shed he'd passed on his way here. He hadn't known what it was for then, but he was reasonably sure now of what he'd find.

 

The package wasn't far down and the soft soil made the task all the easier. He didn't care right now about covering his tracks which made it all the faster. Within minutes, the shovel hit something that was too shallow to be a casket and too soft to be a buried grave stone. He paused, looking around again to make sure he was still alone.

 

He knelt slowly, brushing dirt away from the black plastic until he revealed a sealed silver case wrapped in a black trash bag. Leaving the bag in the ground, he hefted the case to get a feel for what might be in it and then headed back into the city. He wanted to be safely ensconced before he opened it.

 

Twenty minutes later he was in a dingy hotel room that rented by the hour and didn't check ID. He sat with the case on the bed and inspected the lock. It was unremarkable, but resilient and required a four digit pass code. He closed his eyes and let his hands wander over the device. Off the top of his head, he could think of two dozen possible combinations he might have used not to mention all the random ones.

 

He blinked when he heard the case click open. A look at the combination was unhelpful. _1409_. It could be random digits, a date in September, a street address or...a date in September. The 14 th of September. Had something significant happened that day? His eyes drifted shut as he searched with his mental eye what he couldn't see with the physical.

 

A meeting under the bridge. A limo ride with a couple of hitters. A man with glasses. Fog.

 

He growled to himself as the ghost of memory drifted into nothing. Returning his attention to his prize, he lifted the lid to find a fairly standard stash kit: a 9mm pistol and a case of bullets; three stacks of cash, two in US currency and another with assorted Euros, pounds sterling and Russian roubles He stared at the roubles Those were not his standard fare, especially since the agency knew he'd sought shelter in Russian communities on more than one occasion.

 

He turned to the passports to check the names and stopped dead as a smaller man with glasses stared back at him from half of them. Harold Whitworth. David Tanner. Terry Shannon. All aliases, he knew. He thought.

 

Harold.

 

Why would he stash ID for this man? No way he was an agent with a limp like that and he was entirely too easy to overpower. A handler? But why would John have cover ID? Handlers rarely needed them and what they did require, they were responsible for stashing. So what did that leave?

 

He'd spoken John's name in relief and his eyes had shown absolute trust that John wouldn't hurt him in the hallway. Damn the man for getting under his skin. Even today when he'd seen the man with the detective, he'd exposed himself by watching the man leave, concern worming its way into his thoughts when he saw how exhausted he'd looked. He'd needed food, John had thought. And rest. There had been a moment when John wanted only to follow him and surprise him with pad thai and Sencha green tea. Did the man even like tea?

 

John threw the passports onto the bed and lay back, staring at the ceiling and pushing thoughts of exhausted faces out of his mind.

 

Following Detective Carter had felt familiar, like he'd done it more than once. He'd had to stop himself from stealing a motorcycle left in the street a few blocks from the station to assist in his surveillance. Her partner, a short, round man with curly hair and a sour expression had also caught John's attention. John had seen the man with a few other cops and their interactions hadn't seemed on the up and up. He hoped the female wasn't working with a crooked cop; she seemed an honest woman who only wanted to help the people of the city who couldn't help themselves.

 

He scratched idly at his ear, deciding he would make a supply run in the morning. He needed to hear the conversations he was observing but he hated the larger dish microphones the amateurs used. It shouldn't take him long to build a basic bug and he was confident he could place it without Carter recognizing him.

 

His day decided, he let his eyes drift closed and waited for sleep to claim him.

 

***

 

John sat bolt upright and nearly fell off the bed when his ribs screamed in protest. His eyes were wide and his breathing erratic as his body reacted to two phantom gun shots. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly as he concentrated on slowing his heart rate. His eyes darted around the room as he checked for any threat and he gasped as he took another deep breath.

 

Throwing his legs back over the side of the bed, he carefully placed his feet on the floor, testing his balance before standing. His steps were slow as he made his way to the little bathroom nook, one hand braced on the wall so his knees didn't give out from under him. Once there, he leaned back heavily against the door and lifted his shirt. There was a recent scar, just under the bandages covering his burn. He'd been injured more than once in his career. Stabbed, shot and broken more bones than he cared to count. The pink puff of tissue just about the size of a small caliber, high velocity sniper round stood as a stark reminder that he was running from the agency for a reason.

 

He dropped his shirt, still gasping slightly and found his hand rubbing at his thigh where he could feel a similar bunch of scar tissue where he'd taken a second shot. He sat hard on the toilet seat, catching his breath slowly as he searched his memory of the shots. There was something important about this, he knew. Something his mind was trying to tell him.

 

He remembered talking to Mark, telling his once friend that he wasn't coming back to the agency. Had Carter been there? He thought he saw her on the edge of his memory, but couldn't tell. Then searing pain as the first bullet ripped through his side and had thrown him to the ground. Then his leg was on fire as the second shot landed its mark.

 

He'd been in a parking structure of some kind. He'd stumbled his way down the stairs, certain that he'd be stopped by a tactical team at any point. He'd reached out, called for someone.

 

“ _I just wanted to thank you...for giving me a second chance.”_

 

Had he been talking to the same man who now haunted the edge of his memory, there but not? What second chance?

 

“ _I'm coming to get you.”_

 

“ _No. You stay away. Too risky.”_

 

His philosophy had long been to push away that which he cared for most. If he pushed it away, put it to the back of his mind, then maybe he could stop caring as much. It certainly made it easier to hide.

 

His breathing had returned to normal and the phantom pain of past gun shots was replaced by the very real pain of his current injuries. He pulled a bottle of hydrocodone out of his pocket. He'd broken the pills into doses a fourth of the normal and only took one once a day to minimize the narcotic effect and keep himself from forming any kind of dependency on them. He dry swallowed one of the partials before standing and returning to the bed.

 

He was still shaky on his feet and his entire body hurt. Worse still, the continued pushing at memories that simply weren't ready to return had left him with a persistent migraine. There was no clock on the bedside table. Someone had either taken it or there had never been one. He stood beside the window and listened to the ambient sounds of the city, considered the skyline that was never completely dark.

 

He guessed it was a little after midnight. He had paid to keep the room all night. Deciding he needed the rest, he packed his case back up, keeping out only the gun and a loaded magazine and settled onto the bed to attempt a little more sleep. The darkness didn't come as easily this time, his eyes occasionally shooting open at twinges of pain from those scars. Eventually, though, he managed to drop into a fitful sleep. In the end, it was all he could ask for.

 

***

 

It took Harold most of the night to write the code that would automatically search for John around Detectives Carter and Fusco. He'd considered adding himself to the equation, but decided to wait. He didn't want to inadvertently give himself up and chase John away before the other man made some kind of contact. He considered telling Detective Carter that John was very likely following her, but decided he didn't want her to alert the CIA agents who were still following her as often as they could to John's presence.

 

He'd fallen asleep at his desk just after dawn and now startled awake as the monitors began beeping an insistent alarm that they'd found something. He groaned when he tried to push himself up too quickly and wished again that large hands were there to massage out the kinks in his spine. At least, what they could.

 

Squinting at the screen, he looked for whatever they had found. He had to rub his eyes and clean his glasses before he finally saw the motionless figure half in shadow standing atop the building directly opposite of the 8th precinct. He smiled in relief that he hadn't lost John completely and pulled up the earlier footage to try and determine where he'd come from.

 

It took Harold longer than he would like to admit, but he finally found the half dozen frames where John's foot was visible climbing a fire escape thirty minutes before. He still had no idea where the other man had appeared from since there were no utility tunnels in the nearby vicinity and there were only a handful of other possibilities, all of which were well covered by cameras. He gave that search up in favour of working out why he'd chosen this particular spot now. He remembered John grousing about how hard Carter was to monitor when they'd first begun surveillance on her after her number had come up.

 

A section of the screen enlarged automatically as Carter received a call about one of her ongoing cases and grabbed her coat to follow a lead. John shifted and Harold figured he must have a sightline on her outline somehow. Did John remember the layout of the precinct, he wondered. Was he operating on memories or instinct? The urge to call Detective Carter and tell her that John was just outside and ask if she could throw John a phone so he could ask these questions nearly overwhelmed him, but he managed to hold himself in check.

 

While she headed for the door, John made his way to the street and prepared to track her. Harold spotted the two CIA agents who were doing the same and held his breath. Did John know they were there? Did he even know to look? Harold would never forgive himself if his arrogance and need to watch how John was operating now got his friend arrested and sent back to God knew where.

 

Detective Carter stopped just outside the precinct, pulled into a conversation with another detective and John took the chance to scan the crowd. He took a sudden step back into the shadows and Harold's hands were suddenly over the keyboard, ready to start typing code to keep track of where John went, but they stilled in the air when John stepped back out, the hood of his sweater pulled up to mask his features.

 

Harold chuckled dryly. John had seen the other agents, knew what kind of risk he was running by following Detective Carter and he'd chosen to do it anyway. That gave Harold hope that John knew she was their ally, at least on some level.

 

The detective finished her conversation with her colleague and Harold watched the dance begin. Carter changed how long she would let the agents tail her on any given day. The longest she'd gone before losing them was four hours and that had been spent canvassing a bad part of town and crawling through mud and garbage. Harold suspected that day had been more out of spite than any thing else. Most of the time, though, she gave them between a half hour and two hours.

 

Today she started her journey relatively easy and both the agents and John were having no trouble keeping up with her. As if sensing his thoughts, she suddenly veered down a side alley, forcing the agents to back peddle sharply or face losing her early in the game. Harold wondered darkly if Agent Snow had taken to assigning this duty to agents who were in some kind of trouble as a training exercise.

 

John, for his part, had seemed to anticipate the change in course and had taken a parallel side alley just before Carter did. She cut a jagged line across five more blocks and managed to lose the agents halfway through her run of the neighbourhood while John seemed to be moving closer to her.

 

Harold frowned, concerned. Surely John wouldn't try to hurt Carter? Even when he'd still been on the agency's payroll, he hadn't killed randomly or on a whim. He didn't think the head injury had been enough to knock him into a psychotic break that would make him start now, but he supposed one could never be too careful.

 

When John adjusted his course so that it would take him directly by Carter, Harold had his phone out and was ready to dial the number but held himself in check. He trusted John, even when he'd lost vital parts of himself like this. John wouldn't have killed Detective Carter even in his agency days, even if they'd ordered him. He had to let this play out.

 

Harold held his breath as Carter rounded a corner and John brushed past her, his head turned away so she couldn't see his face. An irritated look crossed the detective's face and she glanced back at John, but didn't seem to make the connection. Harold started typing again. There was only one reason John ever got that close to a subject.

 

He used the connection John had established with Carter's phone all those months ago to scan for any new transmissions and found that there was, indeed, a new signal. John had just bugged Detective Carter, likely with a homemade device he'd thrown together with spare parts he'd found along the way. Small chuckles made it past his concern that John would do something regrettable. It would seem he had nothing to worry about. John was set in his ways and it seemed he'd decided that Detective Carter was this week's person of interest.

 

***

 

John followed Detective Carter off and on for two days, biding his time and hoping that something would trigger more of his memory. He traded the hoodie for a suit after he'd planted the bug. When he smoothed the lapels and looked at himself in the mirror, his brain told him that this was right, this was him and he frowned. While he'd certainly spent a fair number of his agency days in a suit, he'd never felt this kind of attachment to the facade he presented. Clothes were clothes. Nothing more.

 

The change meant he had to be more careful about allowing the detective to see his face, but he was confident that wouldn't be a problem. He'd followed her most of the day before and she hadn't noticed his quiet presence. More importantly, her CIA detail hadn't noticed him either. He wasn't sure if they simply weren't looking for him so didn't expect to see him or if they were just that bad. Honestly, if this is what Mark had to work with, John didn't think he'd left much behind at the CIA. Either that or Mark had fallen from favour and was only getting the wash outs.

 

John took a careful step back into the alley as he watched Carter enter a small, dimly lit diner and take a seat at a window booth. She glanced around discreetly before checking her phone. She was meeting someone. John scanned the outside crowd of pedestrians and then the patrons and saw nothing. They waited, John gone completely still so as to blend in with the brick of the building and Carter with an occasional impatient tap on the table. A waitress offered her coffee and she gratefully accepted.

 

John's gaze focused suddenly as a small man with glasses and a limp rounded the corner. He was carrying a book and keeping his head down, the picture of the shy reclusive genius. John's muscles tensed as he held himself steady, not crossing the street and shaking the man for answers like his instincts demanded. He eased himself back another step, pushing himself away from temptation and slowly flexed the tension out of his hands. His right hand moved to the side of his head and he scratched at his ear, wishing for...something.

 

The man...Harold? He wasn't sure of his name, but the passport listing his name as Harold kept making its way to the top of the stack and John decided it was as good a name as any. Harold entered the establishment, smiled at the woman behind the counter and made his way to Carter's booth. Carter's face moved in recognition and then she glanced around again.

 

John pulled his small speaker out of his pocket and placed it near his ear.

 

“Any news?” asked Carter, her voice tinny and John wished for better equipment.

 

Harold shook his head, but seemed to pause. “Nothing.” Carter groaned in frustration and Harold seemed to be considering his words. “He hasn't done anything overt since the drug store robbery,” he added. So they knew him, were searching for him. But why? Were they friends? Enemies?

 

“The FBI and CIA both figured out what he was really after pretty quick,” said Carter, screwing her face in disgust. “Agent Snow was actually excited that he was injured. If he finds John before we do, I really think he'll kill him this time.”

 

“Have faith in John. He knows when to keep his head down, even if his memory is clouded.” Harold glanced out the window and John stared hard at him. Did he know John was here? Did he know John had planted a bug? The words sounded genuine, giving credence to the theory that these two were friends. Then again, they could both be very good actors working with either agency tracking him.

 

“They started looking at recent hospital admissions. I don't suppose you can do something to make sure they don't see that he was admitted? All it'll take is one conversation with any of the staff and they'll know that I'm helping you two. And that you exist.”

 

Harold cocked his head and the expression was so familiar, John wanted to reach out and touch it, to make sure it was real and not from his dreams. “There are no records for them to find. The hospital servers suffered some unexpected downtime, during which time some patient records were lost.”

 

Carter sighed. “And the hard copies?”

 

Harold continued to feign innocence. “What hard copies?”

 

She shook her head in exasperation. “One of these days, that cocky attitude of yours is gonna get you in trouble,” she stated. She slumped slightly in her seat. “So there's nothing? And you haven't found any trace of him? What about your mysterious resources? The ones that tell you when someone is in trouble? Can't they help us find him?”

 

John frowned at the mention of “mysterious resources.” There was more to that, he knew. Something Harold was keeping from Detective Carter. He closed his eyes and concentrated, trying to remember. He knew what it was, had a vision of a board filled with numbers, faces and news clippings. An ache started behind his temple and he shook the image away. He needed to pay attention or he might miss something important.

 

“Believe me, I've been checking with them. Unfortunately, Mr. Reese is very good at what he does. He knows how to avoid detection.”

 

John had to hold himself again from crossing the street and barging in on their conversation. How the hell did this man know that name? Granted, it was the name he'd most come to associate with himself, but that didn't mean he used it with just anyone. He'd taken that name when with the CIA and it could be easily traced back to his time with the agency. Unless Mark had given it up to Detective Carter during his investigation? But that didn't fit. Mark would have used whatever alias John was using at the time. And if he didn't have one, Mark was trained to use vague statements that didn't point to any one alias.

 

“ _Don't worry, Mr. Reese. I won't tell anyone about you.”_

 

“ _You don't know anything about me.”_

 

John took a step further back into the alley, rubbing at his temple where the ache had spiked into something sharper. He saw flashes of a park beneath the bridge. Harold standing at a bench, turning his whole body to look back at John. Two men behind John, ostensibly Harold's security. The little one would be easy to subdue, though there was always the chance he was carrying a gun. John didn't see one, but there could be one in the hand that was hidden from his view.

 

It was gone suddenly and John gasped at how clear it had been, like he was there talking to the man. He took a moment to collect himself, taking deep cleansing breaths. He glanced across the street where Carter and Harold were still talking.

 

“She's a widowed mother of two,” Harold was saying and Carter was looking down at something. A picture, John thought. “She has no criminal history, per se, but her brother put her in contact with a loan shark when she couldn't pay her husband's medical bills...cancer.”

 

John leaned his head against the brick, listening to the facts as Harold laid them out. The woman was in trouble. Someone was going to try to cause her harm in the next day or so. Or she was planning to harm someone else. John could help. Tap her phone, follow her, learn where the threat might be coming from and intervene. But John didn't know where she lived, what her name was.

 

Tara Spencer, his mind supplied and he smiled. He may not have been listening, but he had heard what Harold said. Unfortunately, he hadn't said her address. That was probably on the back of the photo.

 

Carter slipped the picture into her jacket and was giving Harold an odd expression. Harold simply nodded and looked expectant. Finally, Carter threw her hands up in surrender. John turned his full attention back to them. He'd missed something in that exchange and he wasn't sure what.

 

“Let me know if you hear anything about John,” she said, standing and throwing some cash down to cover the cost of the coffee. “I'm worried about him.”

 

“As am I,” said Harold, his attention wandering back out to the street. John stayed very carefully still. “As am I.”

 

Carter patted his shoulder and left the diner. John considered his options for a moment. He could follow Carter, figure out who this woman was who was in trouble. He could help her stop whatever bad thing was about to happen. But then he would run the risk of revealing himself to her. And if she knew he'd been tailing her, then she might give him the slip or even arrest him.

 

He shifted his weight, feeling the tightness in his arm where he'd been burned and wincing as his ribs protested. He could defend himself if it came down to it, but looking for a fight was not the best plan. Watching her walk down the street, hands in her pockets and head held high, John decided that she could handle this on her own. Besides, he'd had more apparent flashbacks in the few minutes he'd been listening to Harold then the two days he'd been following Carter. Maybe the man could offer some additional insights into the man John had become since leaving the CIA.

 

***

 

Harold just managed to keep himself from looking across the street where he knew John was still watching him. Knowing John was this close but aware that any movement he made toward the man would only send him back into the shadows beyond where even the machine could find him was torture. He signalled the waitress and ordered a pastry and a cup of tea, wondering when John had eaten last. Was he okay? He touched the ear bud he still wore, wishing for that steady voice to say something deprecating.

 

He opened his book and forced such melancholy thoughts away. Detective Carter had just turned the corner and John had not moved to continue his surveillance on her. He'd written a short note on the back of the picture of Tara Spencer that John was trailing her and that their friend had managed to plant a bug with instructions not to attempt contact or to remove the bug as they might lose John. He knew Carter would follow along, all too aware of John's ability to disappear completely.

 

He spent fifteen minutes in the diner, pretending to read his book and nibbling at the roll the waitress brought him. He checked his phone and saw a map with a dot where John was standing. His friend wasn't carrying a phone that could be tracked and it would be incredibly easy to lose him, but Harold had to believe that John would follow him now. Even if he wasn't exactly sure where John was, he could be sure that he was there.

 

He closed his book and lifted his head, hoping he appeared to have been engrossed in the words on the page. He went through the motions of dropping a twenty on the table to cover his snack, still sitting on the plate. He'd picked at it and it certainly looked half eaten, but was actually just torn apart. Since John's escape from the hospital, he'd found he had no appetite. He'd had to force himself to eat enough to keep his body going.

 

He began the walk back to the library, deciding to stay on foot to make it easier for John to follow. He was hoping that seeing where they worked, being around the building they spent so much time in, would help John return to himself. He wasn't sure if any of John's memories had returned, but he hoped there was something. He had to believe John remembered at least little things and that was why he was following himself and Detective Carter.

 

His back was aching by the time he made it back. The little dot had long since disappeared from his screen as the tracking code he'd written lost John to the shadows and the mass of people around him. Harold made his way slowly up the stairs, looking around the quiet library and wishing for the first time that someone else was there. He'd always found solace in the silence but now it was oppressive. John never made much sound, but there were always little hints that he'd been there. A book moved here, a stack of papers skewed there. A cup of tea by his keyboard. Another cup with coffee on the other side, next to John's chair, left to cool while the other man wandered somewhere among the shelves, poking into Harold's secrets or just looking for something to keep himself occupied for an hour while Harold typed.

 

Harold jumped as a pigeon took flight from the other side of a boarded up window. He was going to slip into full on depression if he wasn't careful. He straightened and walked to the work station. He needed to watch Detective Carter's progress and check to see if any of the cameras around the building had found John lurking somewhere nearby.

 

***

 

John was careful as he followed Harold, keeping to the opposite side of the street and even taking alternate routes as his feet carried him toward their destination. The walk felt familiar and he had to shake his head more than once to clear images of this man in different suits on different days in other parts of the city, John still behind him. If they were friends, then why had he been following the smaller man?

 

They walked for twenty minutes and John found himself smiling in appreciation of the other man's continued gait. He could tell by the strain in his back that the walk was not pleasant for him, but he pushed his way on. His fingers itched to stroke along the back of his neck, digging into a few spots and forcing his spine back into alignment.

 

He slowed his progress as they approached an older building, its facade cracked and the windows boarded for what seemed months or years. He'd been here before. But what was it? It definitely wasn't an office building. The age and structure could have belonged to a church, but that was wrong.

 

“ _The decline of western civilisation.”_

 

He frowned as the thought came unbidden to his mind, sounding suspiciously like Harold's voice. Had he said those words? The smaller man had checked the people around him before ducking around a door and heading inside. Was this where he worked? But what did he do?

 

He could see three separate ways of getting inside, two of which Harold could use and he assumed there were others around the building. Deciding that he could always return to his surveillance on Detective Carter if he lost Harold in the building, he began circling, his eyes catching everything. It took three circuits of the building before he felt he was comfortable he knew the exits that Harold would have access to. He could see a few other possible choices for himself.

 

There was a small cafe across the street where he could set up surveillance but he decided against that. He walked the surrounding four blocks and found a few more less obvious spots but passed them up for now. As he walked, he kept finding that he knew what he would see when he turned a corner, found flashes of memory of walking this same circuit on other occasions, on different days, but he couldn't remember why.

 

It took three hours of wandering before he finally headed up. He'd noticed several extra cameras in the area and had taken great pains to avoid their searching eyes. He assumed there would be additional cameras on the roofs so planned his ascent in detail. He found a fire escape a block and a half away between two buildings that were closer together than most of the rest. Had he been in top shape, he would have attempted to scale the side of a building, using various piping to lever himself up, but he didn't think his ribs could take the strain and his burned arm had started to ache enough he didn't think the muscles would hold him for that long.

 

He stood on the fire escape just below the lip of the roof, letting his eyes wander across the entire expanse of sky above him. He didn't see any cameras, but knew there could be smaller spy cameras installed anywhere. He would have to risk it, he decided. He eased over the final barrier, still watching and winced as everything pulled. The concrete scraped over the burn and he had to put too much weight on his ribs, but he made it.

 

Sitting behind a maintenance duct, he took several minutes to simply breath, pushing the pain back down to a manageable level. Once he felt he could continue on in his searching, he peeked around the duct, looking for signs that he'd been spotted. There was a camera two buildings over that panned on a regular cycle.

 

He frowned at it, recognizing the design. He favoured that kind of camera, especially when setting up a safe house or base of operations. If he did work with Harold, would the other man have access to the feed from it? John's vision blurred as he remembered being in a darkened room, book shelves all around him as he stood behind Harold, the other man sitting in front of a bank of monitors that showed half a dozen camera feeds watching a crime scene and a smaller feed showing Detective Carter at her desk. Code ran across the central monitor and Harold was typing quickly, speaking just as fast, but the words were lost to the memory.

 

He sat back behind his duct and held his head as an ache started behind his temples and the image faded away. Was that room in the building on the next block over? He couldn't remember, but he thought it might be. If that were the case, then Harold seemed to be a friend. It was only the knowledge that he couldn't say exactly when that memory came from that stopped him from returning to street level and walking into the library and asking Harold.

 

His eyes popped open, startled. The library. HQ. The old building was a library, closed by the city some time ago.

 

“ _A bank I control bought it then promptly declared bankruptcy. The property is in a sort of limbo. It doesn't exist.”_

 

“ _Like you? I did a little digging.”_

 

John sat up straighter as the memory began to fade. “No,” he whispered, reaching a hand out as if he could grasp the memory back to himself and recall the entire conversation. He needed to get in there, he decided. But not when Harold was around. He wanted time to check the entire place by himself. If he was working with Harold, if that was where they had set up their HQ, then there would be signs. There would also be signs up here.

 

He pulled himself to his feet, finding a new energy to continue his search. He slipped across the roof with an easy grace, his injuries all but forgotten. He couldn't think, he knew. If he had set this up, then his body knew how to avoid surveillance. He ducked suddenly and turned to find another camera just panning across where he'd been standing. He smiled. He knew this place. This was his.

 

Thirty minutes later, he was on the roof of the library, picking his way carefully between the spires, eyes searching as he ignored the renewed ache in his ribs and side. It was easier now that he had a task for himself.

 

He always tried to place it on the southeast corner, he knew. He crouched suddenly as a glint of something that didn't quite belong caught his attention. His fingers traced the outline of a case, feeling where he'd installed clamps to keep it flush with the original roof. He didn't need to remove it completely, so he continued his search until he found a covered clasp. A flick of his hand and it was open to reveal a print scanner. He pressed his middle finger against the pad, knowing that thumb or forefinger would activate a failsafe.

 

The case clicked open to reveal a remote that would disable the cameras he'd installed and put them on a five minute timer before small charges would destroy them. There would be half a dozen other identical remotes within seven blocks of this building, he knew and he could almost picture their locations. He stared at the little device in his hand. It required a seven digit alpha-numeric code to work.

 

_6G9ND31_

 

_He flipped through the pages of a book as he waited for Harold, his mind not on the story, but catching random words and forming the digits of the code he'd use. Code generators were never his preference and this method amused him on some level, though he couldn't say why. His mind was just twisted that way, he supposed._

 

He leaned forward and let his head drop into one hand as the image made his head ache spike. He wished he could remember something without the constant pain, but decided it would be worth it if it meant he could know who he'd become since leaving the Agency.

 

He returned his attention to the case and found a small tablet tucked into the back. He dropped the remote and pulled the tablet out, keying the power on without thought. The small computer took a moment to boot up and he noticed the power level was around half. He'd have to charge it before the month was out, he knew.

 

Feeds from twelve cameras came alive on the screen, showing him the area around the library. On the street level, he could see people moving through their lives, completely unaware that they were being watched. A few roof top shots told him that his only companions this high were pigeons, crows and the odd rodent.

 

He tapped a few keys and a status bar appeared, telling him that someone had entered the library a few hours ago, the timestamp matching when he knew Harold had gone inside. There was an entry for the roof a few minutes before that indicated he hadn't been as stealthy on his approach as he'd thought, but he found he wasn't concerned. The only other person he might have given access to this system was Harold and he was beginning to think that the other man had been aware of his presence in some way for some time now.

 

He settled himself into as comfortable a position as he could, the tablet still in his hand and he keyed the alert that would make the machine vibrate in his hand should Harold leave. He closed his eyes as exhaustion began to creep up on him. He was safe here, he knew.

 

***

 

The system found John as he circled the library and Harold watched the few feeds that his friend's face appeared on. He remembered watching in bemusement as John had made this same reconnaissance run after their first case when he'd decided to stay. He knew John had set up a number of safeguards around the building, had watched from his own hidden cameras as John made his installations. At the time he'd wanted to keep his a secret in case the two of them ever fell out for some reason, after which he would need that kind of advantage. After the Root incident, he'd come close to telling John about his system, but wasn't sure how the former spy would take the omission. Months later, he knew John would shake his head and make a comment about how Harold just needed to have the better toys and give him that conspiratorial smile and walk away.

 

It served to help him now as John knew to duck his own equipment but not Harold's. He felt for the other man as he watched the tanned face screw up in pain as he came over the side. The injuries hadn't seemed to hinder him too much as he trailed Carter, but Harold wasn't sure how often the other man had been able to change his bandages and he knew John would not have asked anyone for help.

 

John turned away from the camera and looked across the roof before sitting back down, his eyes closed as he cradled his head in his hands. Was he remembering, Harold wondered. John reached forward on the screen, his lips forming a single, silent word before he sat back again. He felt like John's hand closed around something in his chest as John's face contorted into something unreadable and strained.

 

“Please let me help you, John,” he said, speaking in low tones to the figure on the screen, despite knowing the other man couldn't hear him.

 

Almost as if he did hear Harold, John turned back toward the library and his expression was lost to Harold. He pivoted his body and began to move gracefully toward the edge of the roof, ducking here and there to avoid his cameras. Harold held his breath as the other man crossed from one roof to another, the two close enough that John was able to jump it with little effort on his part. For that, he'd always been a bit jealous. He'd had to go to each individual roof to install his system and he'd been limited to only the surrounding buildings. The library's own roof was a near maze and he'd feared doing himself injury if he attempted that one.

 

After a few minutes, John had travelled to the adjacent building and Harold zoomed in on how John would cross. This building was further away from its neighbours and the same irregularities that had kept Harold off also discouraged anyone from attempting to cross. John was doing something in a corner hidden from Harold's view. He'd gone up from within the library the first time, but his destination now was clearly this building.

 

When John did emerge, Harold's breath caught and he wanted to go outside and beg John not to attempt to cross that way. He held a grappling hook in one hand and was carefully aiming it across the six foot expanse. The hook flew true and caught firmly. John secured his end with something in the corner that Harold didn't have a very good visual on and tested the hold.

 

He took a few deep breaths as he pulled on a pair of thick gloves to protect his hands from the thin rope. Harold looked away, his fear overriding his knowledge that John was good at what he did and would never attempt something he wasn't sure he could do. When he returned his attention to the screen, John was dangling from the rope, his face turned away so Harold couldn't see just how much pain John was in. Long minutes later, John's feet finally touched solid rock and Harold gasped in relief.

 

John sank down on the other side, his arms wrapping around his torso as he recovered himself. Soon enough he stood back up and began untying the line before tossing it back across the roof. He'd be coming down through the library, Harold realized and almost stood to go meet his friend. But no. He would wait until Harold left the building. If he was coming this way, he still didn't remember enough to trust Harold and he would want a chance to poke around on his own.

 

The familiar form was soon lost among the varied spires of the library headed for a place Harold had seen him go when he first installed his cameras. Harold was tempted to leave the building immediately, hoping to expedite the process, but he didn't. He was normally in the library for hours at a time. Glancing at the clock, he decided he would force himself to stay here for another two hours or until something legitimately took him outside and then he'd be sure to give John plenty of time.

 

He kept the feeds up to catch any move John made from the roof and willed his mind to other screens, letting the research he'd done on the current number fill his thoughts and hoping his self-imposed two hours would pass quickly.

 

***

 

_Every step was agony, but he pushed his way through it. If he stopped now, Mark would find him and then he could only hope for death. He pushed past the sadness of seeing Carter at the agent's side, aware that they'd never had any kind of deal and that the agency was very good at developing relationships that would serve their needs. He should have expected that they would dig their claws into her, especially since he'd left enough clues that she meant something to him._

 

_He reached up to touch his earpiece, calling Finch one last time._

 

“ _Hey, Harold.”_

 

“ _John!” Finch sounded so relieved to hear him. John knew the other man was about to do something stupid like try to save him. “I've been trying to call you.”_

 

“ _Yeah. Been kind of busy,” he said, like it was a normal day and he'd just gotten caught up in his surveillance._

 

“ _Where are you?'_

 

_He briefly considered lying, but knew it was child's play for Harold to find that information on his own. “In the parking structure.” He only barely held onto a cry of pain as he stumbled slightly on a step. “It's not looking good,” he admitted, deciding that keeping this from Harold was a futile endeavour._

 

“ _Carter sold you out. They got to her.” John could have laughed at how affronted Harold sounded, but knew the other man wouldn't understand. There had been more than once when he'd been the one to turn an asset, when that same condemnation would have been spoken about his methods and he really couldn't be upset._

 

“ _Yeah, they're clever like that,” he said instead. There was silence over the line and John could hear that Harold was in the car, no doubt speeding toward him. He needed to stop that from happening, to keep Harold safe and very far away from here. “I wanted to say thank you. For giving me a second chance.” He hated goodbyes, had never been very good at them, but with his wounds, he knew he needed a doctor but also that he couldn't risk Harold._

 

“ _It's not over, John. I'm close. Just get to the ground floor.” Harold was so insistent, so intent that he would be there. John knew he'd never convince him to stop this fool's errand, but tried anyway._

 

“ _No. You stay away. Wouldn't risk it.”_

 

_Harold remained stubbornly silent, though John did hear the car accelerate. He wasn't worth the risk of Harold's capture. He could handle whatever the agency put him through, but Harold...Harold was strong, but he wasn't prepared for what they were capable of._

 

_He could hear tires screeching as Mark navigated his way through the garage, searching for John and John forced his failing body forward. If Harold was going to come for him anyway, he was going to do everything he could to get them out of there faster. When he pushed open the door to the ground level, he nearly fell over. He'd been so intent on putting one foot in front of the other and not stumbling on the stairs that he hadn't noticed when he'd finally made it._

 

_He turned as Harold's Lincoln came tearing into the garage, the undercarriage making horrible noises against the concrete as it scraped bottom. Despite his protests, he was happy to see his friend. He hadn't been looking forward to dying slowly in an alley and he knew that Harold would take care of him, had something up his sleeve._

 

_The few steps it took to cross from the door to the car had been almost more than he could handle and he reached out for Harold, grateful when the smaller man took some of his weight and helped him keep his balance. He was still careful not to overpower his friend, aware that Harold's own injury could topple them both._

 

_The door slammed open behind them and Carter's voice interrupted his thoughts, forcing them to stop mid stride. “Hold it!”_

 

_The three of them stood still and John tried to turn to face Carter, but the movement sent a spike of fire through his gut._

 

“ _You,” muttered the detective, recognizing Finch._

 

_John thought Harold might say something, anything, but the other man was apparently at a loss for how to explain the tableau they presented. It was Carter's decision what to do now. Nothing they said would convince her one way or another._

 

_After several long moments, Carter lowered her weapon, sighing tiredly and then holstering the gun. “Get him out of here.”_

 

_The words spurned them on and he felt as his weight was transferred from Harold's arms to Carter's as Harold returned to the wheel and Carter bustled him into the back. They shared a look and John wanted to thank her and ask her why she had changed her mind and a million other things, but couldn't find the words. She nodded at him, like she'd understood at least some of the undercurrents of the exchange. She told them to go and then shut the door, leaving him staring at the tinted window as his eyes lost focus._

 

“ _John,” said Harold, pulling his attention back to the front._

 

“ _You shouldn't have come,” he said, his voice beginning to crack as his body continued to lose blood at a rapid rate and his limbs got heavier. At least now if he died, it wouldn't be curled in a damp alley with rodents ready to start their feast before his heart had stopped. It was a morbid thought, he knew, but an odd sort of comfort._

 

_He met Harold's eyes in the mirror and he saw that he'd come to mean as much to Harold as the other man meant to John._

 

“ _Thank you,” whispered John, his eyes drifting closed as the darkness called to him, pulling him down into its painless abyss._

 

John gasped awake, pitching forward and crying out as his current injuries protested the movement and phantom pains caused the muscles in his stomach to spasm. He wrapped an arm around his middle, trying to ease the pain but it continued to rip through him. He pushed himself back, knocking his head on the brick but not caring. Gritting his teeth, he tried to take slow, deep breaths but his lungs refused to cooperate.

 

Slowly the phantom pains subsided and he was left with the more manageable agony of his current injuries. He searched for the tablet that had been in his hands and found it at his side, the screen a little dirty from being tossed around, but otherwise unharmed.

 

Harold was still downstairs, it told him and John seriously considered making his way down and begging the man to tell him what he was missing, to fill in those pieces he couldn't find in his own mind. But that wasn't how he operated. He needed to find the memories on his own or he'd be doubting their veracity. He found he didn't want to doubt Harold.

 

“ _They lied to you. I never will.”_

 

He closed his eyes, shaking his head as he found he was suddenly bombarded with images, thoughts and feelings. Moments with Harold, some with Carter or Fusco, but always Harold there beside him or in his ear, his soft voice a strange comfort in its constancy. He still wasn't sure just what it was they did together, but it was coming closer.

 

He rubbed absently at his ear, suddenly itching for a comm device. When he realized what he was doing, he pulled his hand away, irritated at himself. Instead, he checked the time and found he'd slept for nearly two hours. He rubbed a hand down his face before setting the device down. Standing up was a bit of a struggle and he'd have been a sitting duck if someone had attacked.

 

His body had stiffened and he had to lean against the brick for a moment and catch his breath again. He hated cracked ribs and how much they hindered his natural litheness. He took a few steps along the roof then walked back to his starting point. Since he was on the roof, he couldn't exactly take a stroll to stretch his muscles, but he didn't need much space.

 

He checked the door that would lead him downstairs and then made a full circuit of the roof, careful of cameras. His tablet was dancing in a little circle as its vibrations alerted John that Harold was on the move. He watched the screen as the man came limping out of the library, his coat carefully buttoned against the elements. Harold paused at the door, looking both ways like he expected to find someone waiting in the shadows. He checked something on his phone then moved purposefully toward the street.

 

John made it to the edge of the roof and easily spotted the limping figure halfway down the block. He continued to watch as Harold turned the corner. The man looked thinner, he noted absently, like he hadn't been eating. He really should take better care of himself. Waiting a few minutes to confirm that Harold wasn't just taking a walk around the block, he finally turned and headed back for the access hatch. Under other circumstances, he might have waited longer, determined how long Harold was usually out and made his entrance accordingly, but he threw caution to the wind and headed down.

 

The latch was secured with a mechanism of his own design, and that gave him reassurance that he didn't actually need to be worried about Harold returning early. Did he want to get caught? He couldn't say for sure, but he was strangely sure that it wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing if he was.

 

Ten minutes later, he was in the building and making his way down an ornate staircase. The building was four stories tall, but vaulted ceilings on the first two levels made it taller than average. The fourth floor was mostly storage. He found weapons stashes and had momentary flashes of memory of when he'd placed them here. There were shelves of books, most with tags identifying them as property of the New York City Library System. The few without those tags had cracked spines and had clearly been read multiple times. He'd seen Harold with various books in most of his flashbacks and thought the other man stored them here after he was finished, his collector's spirit not letting him sell them to a second-hand shop without careful consideration.

 

John moved to the third floor and found more shelves with bins of computer parts stashed between the rows. Here were the makings of bugs, cameras, tracking devices and even phones. In the back he found a workbench set up with bits strewn around haphazardly. He sat down carefully and fiddled with a bit of wiring.

 

_Harold hadn't taped a new picture to their board in over twenty-four hours and John was getting restless. He'd found the innards of the old microfilm reader and had been working on getting it operational. He doubted they would ever need to use it, but it was something to do with his hands and the complex parts kept his mind occupied._

 

He smiled to himself. He may be the brawn of the operation, but he'd always enjoyed tinkering with things. He was certainly no computer genius like Harold, but he at least knew how to repair most of the devices they used even if he wasn't sure of the exact theory behind their design.

 

Moving away from the bench, he turned to where he had half a dozen duffle bags neatly piled together, ready for him to grab a few rifles or to add a tag that said “Plan B.” He frowned to himself. There was a memory in that, he knew, but it wasn't coming. He stared at the bags, willing the memory to come as easily as the last few, welcoming the possibility of a piercing headache if it only meant that he would know, would remember everything.

 

John gritted his teeth, kneeling down to feel the nylon of the bags between his fingers, to mimic the motions of placing tools in the bag and attaching a tag. When nothing came to him, he repeated the motions. He took a bag over to the closest weapons cache and began loading it with rifles but still nothing came. Pain did begin to pierce through his skull, though, as he ground his teeth together harder and harder.

 

The guns jumped as he slammed his fist onto the wood in frustration. John dropped himself into the closest chair, letting the shotgun he'd been loading into the bag fall where it would. Taking a few long moments, he took a deep breath, holding back a wince as his ribs protested. He held it for several beats before slowly blowing it back out. He closed his eyes, and began releasing the tension from his muscles, mentally moving from head to foot until he had relaxed again and the pain in his head had dulled to the quiet ache he'd been living with since he woke up in the hospital.

 

Standing, he turned his attention to the rest of the floor and found little more of interest. As he headed for the staircase, he found a folding metal grate blocking anyone from ascending to this floor from a lower level. It was secured with a padlock that was stupidly easy to pick and figured it was more a deterrent for any homeless who might wander up here for warmth and shelter. It wouldn't do to have someone finding all those weapons.

 

There was another folding grate and padlock at the entrance to the second floor and he paused here, aware that this was the heart of the operation, though not sure why he felt such confidence in that fact. He hadn't explored the first floor yet and it was quite possible there were additional blocked off areas. It was very likely, even, that more existed closer to normal points of entry.

 

John glanced around the landing, looking toward the first floor at the debris strewn floor that he could see. He looked back up from where he'd come. Nothing moved. He returned his attention to the padlock in front of him and realized he was nervous. It felt as if he'd been searching for answers forever and now he was nervous at the prospect of finding the truth.

 

_Kara's back was to him as she threw the beacons out and he raised his gun, ready to kill his partner because Mark had said she had betrayed her country. But this was Kara, a woman he knew better than himself and he knew with absolute certainty that she would never betray her country. Yes, she would kill, torture, maim and so many other things that were against the laws of her country for the sake of her country, but she would never actually betray it._

 

He leaned his head against the wall as a wave of grief passed over him. He was afraid that he would find that he'd turned into that person behind this gate. He'd left the CIA, let everyone believe he was dead and lived in squalor to keep from being the man who followed orders unquestioningly from men who could very well have been sending him on a traitorous mission. If he had become that man after all, he wasn't sure he could live with himself.

 

His hands moved to the lock seemingly of their own accord and began the simple process of picking it. He may not know what he'd find behind the curtain, but he wouldn't walk away just because he feared what might be there.

 

Taking a few small steps past the barrier, he found more bookcases. They created a walkway to his right and he looked down that direction. There was a generator down the hall and just around the corner of the wall, he knew. If he wanted, he could destroy that generator and put Harold out of business for about a day. Or, he could rewire the thing and then—he shook himself out of that thought. Rewiring devices to destroy the area around them was simple, yes, but thinking about it now was hardly productive.

 

He turned himself pointedly away from the generator and started walking toward where he could see lights flickering a few shelf lengths away. The room opened to his left and a he found a desk with half a dozen monitors in standby mode and two keyboards in front of them. On the foremost screen, a blinking cursor silently asked him for a password.

 

_begdeignsect_

 

His hand was at the keyboard, ready to type in the letters but stopped with a finger hovering over the B key. Harold probably had some sort of key logger built into the system or at least something that would alert him if John started doing anything with the computer. He turned away, deciding to wait before he risked that just yet.

 

A glass board with a large crack running through it took up the corner of the nook where he'd just come from. There were pictures taped to the board with the odd news article to the side and post-it-notes with names and pertinent facts stuck to half of the pictures. He was at the board in a few short steps, taking all of the information in a single glance before looking over each again to find the small things that might connect them.

 

From what he could tell, the woman whose picture was in the middle had fallen in with a criminal element, possibly after her husband had died (cancer, according to the obituary taped to the side of the board) and was now in peril from the very people she had turned to. John frowned at the board. There was more to it than that, he knew, but couldn't consciously see what his gut had. He raised a hand to touch at one of the surveillance photographs but pulled away before his fingers made contact. He moved that same hand to his ear and rubbed absently.

 

When nothing leaped at him, he turned away from the board and saw a much larger board through a doorway. He approached that one, aware that this would take much longer to take in. A list of numbers—social security numbers—ran down the middle with bits of string linking those numbers to pictures and articles. Every number on that list was dead, some by criminal means and others apparently from natural causes. What the hell was Harold involved in? What was John involved in?

 

The quiet ache suddenly became a fury of agony like seeing the board had flipped a switch in his brain telling him he just wasn't ready for this much information yet. He turned away, both hands cradling his skull as he flailed for a chair to sit in while the blinding pain passed. He found one a few feet behind him by nearly tripping over it and gratefully sat down. He wanted to curl into a small ball, but his injuries protested almost as loudly as his skull.

 

He rocked himself back and forth, letting the agony wash over him in waves that gradually began to subside. He felt his pulse at his temples and concentrated on the steady rhythm, willing it to slow and letting the pain go with each beat. Once it had passed enough for him to move without doing further injury to himself, he stood and fled the building, unsure of his final destination and uncaring for the moment.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

 

An hour later John looked up from his contemplations to discover he'd only made it a half dozen blocks away from the library. He'd thought to find himself clear across town after his reaction to that board. His subconscious had other ideas, it would seem. He'd stopped across the street from a deli and had automatically secreted himself into the shadows between a dry cleaners and a bar that wouldn't open for another four hours.

 

He evaluated what he thought he knew of the man with the limp. While John knew that any person was capable of any deed, good or evil, something told him that this man wasn't.

 

“ _You know how I feel about guns,” he said, his back to John as he walked back toward his computers, his back straight and his limp more pronounced, a sure sign that he was irritated at John._

 

John tucked his hands in his pockets and leaned his head back against the concrete. Just because someone didn't like guns didn't mean that they couldn't use them or that they weren't deadly without one. He was a case in point: while he would certainly prefer to live in a world where guns were redundant and bad things never happened to good people, he was also realistic. And he'd lost count of how many ways he could kill a man with his bare hands.

 

He turned toward the deli. Harold had looked exhausted and John knew the smaller man tended to forgo nutrition when he was stressed. For whatever reason, John felt he could trust Harold. He might even go so far as to say that he cared about Harold. It was time he went to the other man, he decided. He could only learn so much from a distance and he was reasonably sure he'd reached that critical point.

 

His mind made up, he crossed the street with a renewed purpose. He would bring the other man a peace offering and see what he could determine. If things went bad, he was certain he could get out of the library with ease and then he would disappear; find a new home and accept that the memories he'd lost were gone for good.

 

Twenty minutes later, he set a steaming cup of Sencha green tea down beside the still idling computer and left a wrapped pastrami sandwich next to it. He'd eaten his own club sandwich on the way back and now held a cup of coffee for himself.

 

Harold had been gone from the library a little over three hours. It was approaching late afternoon and, while for some people that would be time enough to head home, he knew the other man would be back. It was just a matter of time. His eyes flicked to the board, but he looked away quickly, not wanting to trigger the same response as last time.

 

Instead he began to peruse the bookshelves, paying more attention to the titles than he had on his earlier inspection. As he was wandering, his eyes would focus on one title or another. Trusting himself now, he would open the book and find things stashed within. Most had cash in them and he had a feeling he'd been the one to leave these crumbs. Certainly, he trusted that Harold knew the advantages of cash transactions, but he doubted the other man would have quite so many as he'd found.

 

He found old photographs in two of the books. One was Harold and another man, both men in their late teens or early twenties. John would hazard to guess they were in college when the pictures were taken. A note on the back said the other man was N.I. with a message that this was the beginning. Of their friendship, he wondered. It was a familiar photo, so John tucked it back inside and continued on. If his memories returned, he was sure he would remember that he'd already investigated the message. The second was a family snap of Harold, N.I. and a young boy. The child looked like the mystery man and, if the balloons in the background were anything to judge by, this appeared to have been taken at a birthday party. John wondered where the mother was, but again let it go.

 

As he was replacing the book he'd found it tucked into, he heard the grate open as someone entered. There was a moment of silence and then Harold's tentative voice called out.

 

“John?” he asked. Another pause and then he took a few limping steps into the room. “John, are you here?”

 

He wondered briefly what Harold would do if he turned the corner and said, 'boo' but decided not to test it. Instead, he waited quietly where he was, a new book in hand as he leafed through the pages. He would learn more from Harold if he remained silent and forced the other man to respond based on his own expectations of John then if he gave Harold any clue about his state of mind.

 

He heard the sound of plastic as Harold handled the sandwich. He wasn't opening it, but he had found it. There was a chuff of sound that might have been an aborted attempt at laughter and then the cup was set back down.

 

“John?” Harold called again, this time sounding hopeful.

 

John closed the book and held it loosely in front of him as Harold appeared at the end of the row, a small smile touching his features. John let his gaze take everything in: Harold's posture was open and welcoming. There was a small wariness just behind his eyes, like he wanted to believe that everything was back to normal, but he was realistic enough to know that might not be the case.

“John,” Harold said again, addressing him directly and taking a single step forward. “Do you know who I am?”

 

John let a small half-smile touch his lips and tipped his head slightly. Had he ever known exactly who Harold was? He replaced the book he'd been holding and pointedly touched the one with the photograph, bringing the spine just slightly out from the rest of the books before turning and continuing his inspection of the row.

 

Harold followed carefully, pushing the book back in as he passed it. “I've been worried about you,” continued the other man. John turned slightly at that and raised an eyebrow. Harold rolled his shoulders in an odd imitation of a shrug that was likely all he could do with his injury. “You disappeared from the hospital ward without a backward glance. You'd been unconscious for four days before that. Of course I was worried.”

 

John continued on, taking in the information. He hadn't known exactly how long he'd been unconscious, but that certainly explained why his muscles had been so sore after his crosstown trek. He stopped and pulled a book from a high shelf, glancing at Harold as he did so.

 

Harold frowned at it, apparently not familiar with this one. One of John's stashes, then.

 

“I know the pharmacy was your work,” Harold continued. “How are your injuries?”

 

John's ribs twinged at the reminder, but he kept the wince from his face. He opened the book and found the interior hollowed out to hold four passports and matching New York driver's licenses and a bundle of cash. Harold frowned harder at it, no doubt disapproving of how John had treated the book. John opened the passports and found two for each of them, under different names. Harold had continued to approach and now stood next to him, looking over his arm to inspect the documents.

 

“When did you hide those?” he asked, reaching for one and inspecting it for quality.

 

_A kung fu movie played in the background while John bent over the desk, tilting the lamp this way and that as he adjusted the pictures on the passports. While he was certainly not a master forger, his work would and had passed customs inspection in this country and abroad. He'd also had a few spares made by someone whose work he absolutely trusted, but he always liked to have the option of a few identities that no one had seen. These he would stash in the library for immediate emergencies and the others he would place in one of his buried stashes for use if they needed absolute certainty that the documents would get them out of the country._

 

Harold's gentle touch on his arm startled him out of the memory and he moved abruptly away. He only just managed to keep from grabbing the other man by the throat and pushing him against the shelf, an automatic response to a perceived threat. Harold stood completely still, apparently aware that a barely contained animal lay right beneath the surface.

 

They stood in tense silence for several heartbeats before John forced himself to relax. He plucked the passport Harold still held from limp fingers and tucked it back into its spot and replaced the book. Harold didn't speak again until after John had turned his back on the other man and continued down the row. He was approaching the end now.

 

“You're still getting your memories back, aren't you? John, what do you remember?”

 

John glanced at Harold as he reached the corner and turned to look at a smaller shelf on the end. There were three rifles and a grenade launcher set neatly on the middle shelf and magazines and extra ammunition took the top shelf. Harold sighed quietly, his eyes darting between the back of the shelf and John's face. Clearly, he knew what was stored here.

 

“I may not like you storing your arsenal here, but I'm coming to realize you prefer to have things at easy reach. At least here you don't have to worry about someone else finding them.”

 

John nodded in affirmation. John would do without heavy artillery before running the risk of innocent people getting hurt because they happened across his collection. John continued back down the next aisle, this time not stopping as he went. He knew where things were hidden now. No need in letting Harold know about all of his stashes.

 

They walked in easy silence until they returned to the computer area and John approached the smaller glass board again, rubbing absently at his ear. Something about the pictures was still bothering him but the answer wouldn't come. Unfortunately, it had nothing to do with his memories and everything to do with him simply not seeing something he knew he should be.

 

Harold grabbed the cup of tea and came to stand with John making him realize that he'd set his coffee cup down somewhere and he wasn't sure where. Harold would be upset with him if he stained the books with coffee. He'd find it later, he decided, watching Harold sip the tea. The other man needed sustenance as well, John knew.

 

“Her name is Tara Spencer,” said Harold, falling into the briefing easily. They did this often, John knew. But why Tara Spencer? What had she done to bring herself to Harold's attention? With an effort, John kept himself from turning to the other board—the one with numbers and articles and needless death.

 

John listened with one ear as Harold explained what John had already deduced, that she hadn't known where else to turn when bills started stacking up following her husband's death and now she had a loan shark threatening bodily harm if she didn't pay up. John nodded along with the explanation as Harold gave him the complete timeline and described what Detective Fusco had found in his own research.

 

“ _He's a...friend.” John just barely managed to keep from choking on the word._

 

John rubbed at his ear then moved his hand up to kneed at his aching temples.

 

_The IA detective held a gun to Lionel as he demanded the heavyset cop kneel in the dirt, explaining that no one was coming to save him. John smiled darkly to himself. If the man only knew who was coming to save Lionel, he wouldn't be too quick to judge the other man. Their relationship may have begun at odds, but Lionel had taken to honest police work like a fish to water and even seemed to be enjoying working with Carter now, straight laced and by the book though she was._

 

“John?” asked Harold, wisely choosing not to touch him as John pulled himself from the memory.

 

John took a deep breath, steadying himself from the images in his mind. He stared at one of the photographs of Tara before suddenly grabbing a black marker from the desk and circling the blur of a figure in the background.

 

Harold considered him for several long moments and John let the silence stretch. He still wasn't ready to give anything of himself away, despite knowing that this was where he was supposed to be, that this is what he did now. He needn't have worried that he had become a killer for hire, rather should have trusted his gut instinct in this man.

 

His inspection complete, Harold turned to his computer and pulled up the file with the surveillance photos. Lionel had taken a good series in those moments as Tara entered a grocery store and the background blur sharpened two frames later into a man sitting at a coffee shop next door, a paper in front of him, but his focus was above it on the woman.

 

John watched as Harold began typing, capturing the man's image and running it through his facial recognition program against known associates of the loan shark. There was no match. John looked again at the photos while Harold tried other means of identifying the man. He was well dressed, good looking but blended easily with the other background faces. There was something about his eyes, though, that John recognized. Even on film, they were lifeless and cold. If John had to hazard a guess, he would assume the man to be a stranger stalking the woman with an intent to rape or murder her.

 

A map suddenly appeared on the screen, placing Tara at the bar where she worked. John glanced at the time—she'd probably just started her shift and was stocking the bar before it opened. A dot showed Fusco across town in his old stomping grounds.

 

“Endearing himself to HR?” asked Harold, looking up to John who simply nodded.

 

Harold typed again and a camera feed showed Detective Carter at her desk, filling out reports.

 

“ _Happy birthday, Lionel,” he said, laughing quietly to himself as he watched the detective's amused smile at the fat doll Harold had found god knew where and altered for their purposes._

 

He leaned heavily on the desk and Harold looked up with concern etching his features, his hand hovering above the keyboard. The ache behind his temples was becoming a constant sharpness, a reminder that too many memories were as problematic as not enough.

 

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Harold asked softly, reaching out to lay a hand over John's, but stopping just before he made contact.

 

John pulled his hand from the almost-touch and turned away. He wrapped an arm around his middle and carefully dug a finger into the burn on his side, using the immediate pain to pull him back to the present. He took a few carefully measured breaths, making sure he really was back before returning to stand behind Harold.

 

The other man took that as a sign that he had things under control and pressed a button that called Detective Carter. On screen, she glanced at her phone absently before doing a quick check of her surroundings and answering.

 

“Did you find John?” she asked, turning away from her desk to lean closer to the wall.

 

Harold looked at him in the reflection of the screen, considering his words. “I'm not sure,” he said, before turning the conversation away. “We need your help identifying someone,” he continued and sent the best image as an email attachment.

 

She turned back to her computer as the machine beeped that she had a new message. She tucked the phone between shoulder and ear and pulled it up. “I thought you always knew the players in your little mysteries.”

 

“Not always. He seems to be following Miss Spencer. While I could certainly gain access to the police facial recognition database, I know how much you frown on my methods.”

 

Carter smiled to herself as she continued to type, starting the image running through the software. “They upgraded the security and it's harder for you to hack the firewall,” she commented dryly.

 

“It's faster for you to run the image,” said Harold, ignoring the hacking comment.

 

“Wait, 'we?'” asked Carter, her brain finally catching up to what Harold had said. “Is John back?”

 

Harold sighed to himself. “Turn of phrase, Detective,” he said, choosing not to look at John and the exhaustion he'd seen earlier was suddenly back, even more obvious this close to the man. “Call me when you have something,” he said and ended the call.

 

John leaned over the chair and carefully pushed the sandwich closer to Harold, silently telling him to eat before he passed out.

 

Harold blew a breath of laughter before reaching to unwrap it. “Thank you,” he said, turning his body in the chair to look back at John who looked down, aware in that moment of just how close he was to Harold. “Are you? Back?” he asked, eyes searching John's face.

 

John ducked his eyes and pulled away, moving to stand a few feet away, crossing his arms in a defensive posture as he tried to find the answer to that question. Harold watched the uncertainty before looking down and opening a drawer. He pulled a phone and earwig out and laid them down on the table between the two men.

 

He opened his mouth to say something before shutting it with a click. He took a bite of pastrami and chewed as he navigated through various screens. John's attention was drawn to the board full of numbers and he stared at it, frowning. While the pain didn't return, neither did the memories of just what that list was for. Fed up with it, he turned for the door, grabbing the phone on his way out.

 

He didn't see the relieved smile on Harold's face as he left the room. But he also didn't need to see it to know it was there.

 

***

 

Harold's attention stayed focused on the GPS coordinates to John's new phone as the dot made its way across the city to where Tara Spencer worked. The smile that had appeared as John had taken the device still hadn't left his face. He knew John still wasn't back to normal yet—he hadn't said a single word to Harold the entire time he'd been there—but he was certainly making progress.

 

He'd been worried about John's marked silence at first, especially when he seemed to be in pain of some kind. While the man was soft spoken at the best of times and had chosen to remain silent around Harold on more than one occasion, this was different. He was intentionally not speaking.

 

Harold chewed thoughtfully as the marker moved quickly through the streets, cutting through alleys and avoiding the major access points. He had to put a napkin to his mouth as he started chuckling softly. Of course, just as a simple question about what was good at a restaurant was a subtle interrogation technique, so too was silence. Harold had done all the talking. John had been aware of every movement he made, every facial expression and every pause. John had been playing him for information.

 

“Very clever, Mr. Reese,” he said to himself, making sure that the microphone was muted so John didn't actually hear it.

 

John made good time getting to the bar and Harold pulled up the available cameras so that he could keep an eye on John. While he hadn't seemed to have any trouble moving around the library, Harold knew how bad his injuries had been and, based on the strength of the oral antibiotics he'd grabbed at the pharmacy, Harold was willing to bet that John had developed at least a minor infection in the time he'd been away from professional medical care.

 

His friend arrived and then situated himself in a cafe across the street. He had a book in his hands that he pretended to read and Harold wondered idly which one he'd chosen. Through discussions they'd had, Harold knew John tended to read the books for real once he was done with the job and his opinions were always interesting. John may not be the avid speed reader that Harold was, but he was certainly no slouch.

 

“She's still inside,” Harold said, speaking through the ear wig for the first time in over a week and finding the simple words more of a comfort than he might have thought possible. “There's a camera on the back entrance that I've been monitoring,” he added and waited to see if John would respond.

 

Instead of speaking, the image of John looked dead at the camera Harold was using and tapped a finger against the side of his head. Harold considered calling John on the technique, but decided that could wait until Tara was safe from her stalker. He was, however, irritated to note that John had no trouble placing an order for coffee with the waitress who approached him and thanking her when the beverage arrived. Then he was irritated with himself for feeling jealous of a waitress just because John was talking to her. At this point, he wasn't sure John wasn't doing it simply to irritate him.

 

They waited in silence for an hour before John moved locations. The building next to the cafe housed offices on the second and third floors and John found one that had closed for the day. Bored of the wait, he'd turned his attention to Fusco's other surveillance photos to try and determine how many other times the man appeared around their number and wondering that they had missed something so obvious when he appeared in 27 more frames and Harold found an additional 89 blurry forms that could be the man. Surely he and Detective Fusco weren't so helpless without John's assistance as this. Harold told himself that they had simply allowed themselves to be blinded by the woman's criminal associations and hadn't considered the possibility that something else might be happening.

 

His phone beeped at Carter's incoming call and he considered whether to include John in the conversation. He was reasonably certain that John wouldn't say anything even to Carter, but he also didn't know what the detective would say.

 

“You need to show him that he hasn't misplaced his trust,” he told himself and pressed the button that would simultaneously answer the call and let John hear what was said.

 

“Detective Carter,” he greeted and saw John's image look up a bit.

 

“Any word on John?” she asked, forgoing small talk. An amused smile appeared on the man's face and Harold took that as a sign that he could tell the woman that John was at least partially back in the game.

 

“He's monitoring Miss Spencer at work,” he said.

 

“What? Is he okay? Did he say where he's been?”

 

“No. Did you have something on our suspect?”

 

Carter sighed and Harold watched her consider if she wanted to argue with him more or let the matter drop for now. There was no doubt in his mind that she would interrogate him further. She rubbed at her forehead, frowning at the phone.

 

“His name is Raymond Casey. I found a driver's license with an address in the Bronx, but nothing else. He hasn't had so much as a parking ticket.”

 

Harold typed the name into his own system, checking IRS records to see if the man was currently employed anywhere. It took a few seconds to return results, but the blank page wasn't a huge surprise.

 

“I'm not showing any employment records either. Ever. Either he's never had a job or everything he's done has been under the table. Nothing for social security, welfare or taxes.”

 

Carter did her own bit of typing and John checked the street again, standing from where he'd been crouched out of sight. “Well, the address is an actual place. I can see if he's there at least.”

 

Harold considered having Carter and John switch jobs, aware that John would pick the lock and enter without any qualms while Carter was limited by the law against search and seizure, but held off for now. They didn't actually know anything about the man yet except that he seemed to be following Miss Spencer. While it seemed unlikely he was a private investigator as they had to be licensed, there were other possibilities as well. Harold just couldn't think of any at the moment.

 

They agreed to check in again when Carter reached the address and Harold was left with John's silence again.

 

“You never said how your injuries were doing,” said Harold, hoping to strike up a conversation. When had he become the talkative type, he wondered. They'd sat in companionable silence for hours through these surveillance missions countless times before and Harold had never batted an eyelash. But then he'd known that John was okay.

 

He heard John chuckle softly and decided that he had turned it into a game and Harold had just admitted defeat. Normally, Harold might move to other stations he had set up in the library and work on other projects, but he found he couldn't bring himself to move away from John's image on the screen. Sighing, he pulled up the camera inside the bar and watched Tara move through the establishment, cleaning tables and serving the few guests who sat at the bar. He was getting a crash course in the waiting game and he would persevere.

 

***

 

Carter let the sedan idle on the street outside Casey's address, considering her options. She didn't want to just knock on the door and ask the man why he'd been following a woman, but waiting for the man to make his move wasn't a favourable option either. There was a brown 4x4 outside the run down structure that looked like the man's primary transportation.

 

As she was trying to decide on her next move, the man in question exited the house and threw a duffel bag into the passenger side. He looked around and Carter ducked below the dash to keep from being spotted. He returned inside for a moment before stepping out and locking the door.

 

He was easily six feet tall with brown hair cut close to his head. He was dressed casually in jeans and a denim jacket over a solid forest green shirt. If she had seen the man on the street, she would probably walk past him without a second glance. Now, as she took a closer look, she realized that something was off about the image he presented. His jeans were pressed and his boots were spotless. The jacket was too clean, like he'd just bought it this morning.

 

When he started the truck, she was expecting a roar from the old beater, but it revved easily with as much noise as a sedan. No, something was definitely not right about this. She wondered if he was a hit man of some sort but dismissed that thought. The information she'd gotten from Finch suggested that the only person who had any reason to hurt her was a loan shark and they tended to avoid actually killing their clients. After all, a dead client couldn't pay back the money they owed and they certainly wouldn't have any legal recourse to get money from the estate.

 

He backed out of the driveway and headed into Manhattan. She waited a few seconds before pulling past an old Trail Blazer she'd parked behind. Sending a quick text to Finch with the plate number and vehicle description, she also typed the information into the NYPD-issue laptop that sat in the passenger seat. Vehicle registration returned to a different name and address, but it had not been reported stolen. Frowning at the deepening mystery, she followed at a distance through traffic as Mr. Casey approached the bar where Tara Spencer worked.

 

Half an hour later, he parked eight blocks away from the bar and Carter kept going for another half block before parking her own vehicle and waiting for Casey to walk past her. He had rummaged in the duffle bag for a few minutes before leaving the vehicle and the bag. There was a barely perceptible bulge under his left arm that hadn't been there before leading Carter to believe he'd armed himself. What else was in that bag, she wondered.

 

She pulled out her phone just in time to answer Finch's incoming call.

 

“John is ready to intercept him if need be,” he man said without preamble.

 

“You know I can't do anything until he commits a crime, right?” asked Carter, exiting her vehicle and walking down the street, Casey's dark head easily seen through the crowd.

 

“I know.”

 

As they approached the bar, Carter scanned the crowd for John's face, but found nothing. Casey stayed on the opposite side of the street as the bar and found a seat at the small cafe, ordering coffee and a small salad. Carter slipped into a corner to watch the scene unfold. If he was going to be there for awhile, she didn't want to tip her hand and sit for the same length of time, especially since she didn't have anything to use as a prop to keep her there.

 

They waited for nearly an hour, Casey sitting at the cafe and flirting with the waitress, Carter finally taking a seat a few tables away some time later and John heaven only knew where, but she was confident he was still there.

 

It was nearly seven in the evening when Tara came out of the bar, a cigarette in one hand as she dialled her cell phone. While Casey didn't exactly perk up at the sight of her, there was a sudden tension in his body that said he was aware she was there. She was smiling at the phone as she spoke for several minutes. Carter couldn't hear the conversation from this side of the street and she'd never been able to read lips, but she suspected the other woman was talking to her kids, if the softness in her eyes was anything to judge by.

 

Casey stood, nodding his goodbye to the waitress and casually crossed the street. Tara had been pacing back and forth outside the bar and had moved so she was partially in the alley. Her back was to the street so she didn't see Casey approaching. Carter crossed the street and unbuckled her weapon, leaving it in the holster for now, but ready to pull the pistol. Where was John?

 

As Tara put out the butt and hung up the phone, Casey struck, grabbing the woman from behind and pushing her further into the alley. Carter jogged the last few steps, her weapon drawn.

 

“Police! Let her go!” she yelled, rounding the corner in time to see Casey slap Tara hard across the face, knocking her into the wall and stunning her.

 

Casey turned to face Carter, a startled expression on his face as he turned his own gun to her. Carter ducked behind a dumpster as two shots rang out. She heard the man swearing colourfully and Carter saw him turning the gun on Tara.

 

“Don't do it,” she called before ducking back as another shot came whizzing past her.

 

She heard something crash and peeked back around to see John grappling with the man for the gun. She wasn't sure where he'd come from but was grateful for the assistance. As she came around the corner, John finally got the upper hand and knocked the gun to the ground and knocked Casey back with a sharp fist to the sternum.

 

“Freeze!” repeated Carter, her gun aimed at Casey as John turned his attention to Tara.

 

Casey's eyes darted back and forth like he was considering moving to escape or for his gun, but Carter's presence kept him still. When she had him cuffed, she turned to thank John, but found he had disappeared again. Sighing, she pulled her phone out and called for an ambulance and backup. As she hung up with dispatch, a new text message appeared from an unknown number.

 

_You're welcome._

 

She shook her head, a smile creeping onto her face despite herself.

 

***

 

Harold blew out a long breath as John left the alley. He'd seen the man in hand-to-hand combat on numerous occasions and, while he worried every time, this one had been so much more nerve-wracking. He pulled his glasses off his face and rubbed at the bridge of his nose, letting himself relax now that Casey was in custody and John was safely away.

 

When he replaced the frames, he saw that John was a good four blocks away, no apparent destination in mind. He was tempted to call the other man and ask after his welfare, but assumed he would only get silence or a stare at the camera. Instead, he tracked his friend's progress and tried not to let himself feel anything when he realized the other man was not returning to the library. If anything, he appeared to be headed back to the 8th precinct.

 

Harold wanted to tell John that he would answer any questions the man had. He wanted to tell John that he would provide whatever footage or other recording John needed to feel confident in his recollections. Harold wanted John to return to the library and simply stare at him, the silence finally forcing Harold to reveal too much about himself if it only meant that he knew the other man was safe. More than anything, Harold wanted John to let him treat his wounds. Now that he'd been able to observe the other man for hours at a time, he'd caught the small winces, the moments of discomfort when something pulled or twisted against still healing flesh and bone.

 

Instead, John climbed the roof of the building opposite Carter's precinct and took a position near the edge. He'd watched John on surveillance for hours and knew the signs when the other man was digging in for the long haul. This, it would seem, was one of those times.

 

Sighing at John's stubbornness, Harold rolled up his sleeves and prepared to wait John out. He'd be here when his friend was ready to talk. He'd be here if John ran into trouble. He could wait this out, as long as he needed.

 

***

 

John let his attention wander as it would. He'd thought about returning to the library after helping Carter with Raymond Casey, but something had held him back. He'd had snatches of memories in the hours he'd been here on the roof, though these were certainly less striking and none of them had produced the near debilitating migraines like the others. He wasn't ready to talk, he thought. If he returned to the library, he'd start asking questions and that would give away so much of his current mental state. As much as he felt he trusted Harold, he wasn't ready for quite that much trust.

 

He'd returned to the precinct with the idea of keeping an eye on Carter and Fusco, but without eyes in the station, he was effectively blind. So he'd taken to watching the goings on around the precinct. Cops came and went, some with criminals in tow, others escorting witnesses. Lawyers were the other common sight and he had no trouble separating out the ADAs and the private lawyers. There was a coffee stand just outside the building and he spent some time observing the man behind the counter as he did a steady business. The man was something of a flirt, but John thought that was more to increase business than any real desire to step out on his wife if the way he pulled away from more than casual flirting back was anything to judge by.

 

The hours passed quickly and he was considering whether to find a place to stay for the night or return to the library when movement on the opposite roof caught his attention. He thought about calling Harold to find out what was going on, but held himself still and silent. Doubt was tickling at his subconscious as he saw another small movement on a second roof top.

 

The sun had set some time ago and the darkness covered their movements well, but there was a distinct glint as street lights reflected off of a barrel.

 

_Trust is a dangerous thing. It will always be betrayed. The only person you trust is yourself._

 

He closed his eyes for a brief moment and let the knowledge wash over him. Without all of his memories, he was vulnerable. He'd wanted to believe that he'd found someone he could trust implicitly. He shouldn't be surprised. He pushed away the sadness and carefully slid from his perch and fell into the shadows.

 

“John,” said Harold's voice in his ear, the first words to him since John arrived. “Something's wrong,” he continued, the sound of typing just audible.

 

John bit back a sarcastic comment and checked the roof he was on. There was an access door across the expanse and he could just see it creeping open. His eyes moved smoothly across the rest of the background. There was an old fire escape to his right that ran close to the edge of the next building. He could slip down that far enough to drop the remaining distance to the ground. There was a small gap between the next building and the one behind it that John had used once or twice before that would lead him to a utility junction. Once there, neither the CIA nor Harold would be able to find him.

 

He took a steadying breath as Mark's form appeared at the door, hands at his sides as a tactical team spread out behind him. John would have to move quickly if he wanted to get to the edge.

 

“Easy, John,” said Mark, raising his hands a bit to show that he wasn't holding his weapon, though they both knew he was armed and could pull his gun in the blink of an eye.

 

John took a few steps from the shadows and the tactical team slowed their movements and raised their weapons at him. He knew the snipers had him targeted as well. From what he remembered of their last encounter, Mark wanted him alive if possible. He also knew John was injured and would likely have given the order to shoot to kill only as a last resort.

 

“This didn't end well for you the last time,” commented Mark, as they both approached each other cautiously.

 

John narrowed his eyes and tilted his head, feigning uncertainty in the hope that Mark would allow him to get closer if he thought John wasn't sure of what he was talking about. Mark took another few steps and paused as a flicker of calculation crossed his features.

 

“I know you're wounded,” he said and waited for a response. John kept his silence and let Mark make his own conclusions. His old friend was just as versed in the tactic and should recognize it fairly quickly. He held his hand in a staying gesture at the tactical team and John knew he had Mark hooked.

 

Even if they could convince him that he still worked for the agency, they would never trust him again. But Mark would want to know what happened in Ordos and he wasn't above playing on John's vulnerability to get that information before retiring him for good.

 

“Do you remember how you were wounded?” asked Mark, taking another step forward and John let the doubt he felt fill his gaze. He didn't remember how he'd been wounded, had assumed he would either get that back or would ask Harold—he pushed thoughts of the man out of his mind. Harold had sold him out and there was no use thinking of him now.

 

“John, let me help you,” said Mark and John took a tentative step toward the man. They were only a few paces away now, close enough for Mark to see the line across his temple where he'd taken the head injury. As John had expected, his gaze focused on that and a spark of excitement shone for just a moment. John was sure he wasn't supposed to see that, but he worked so closely with the man for so many years, he knew what to look for.

 

John opened his mouth like he wanted to say something but snapped it shut before any sound escaped. Mark took another two steps and John held himself carefully at ease, not wanting to give himself away before he had a chance to strike.

 

“You're confused. We've been worried about you, John. We can make this right.”

 

John shuffled his feet forward and Mark took that as a sign to take the last few steps. As soon as Mark was within touching distance, John's gaze sharpened and his head snapped up. His arms whipped out, one spinning Mark so his back was to John while the other pulled the sidearm John knew Mark carried at his back. The barrel of the pistol was at Mark's temple and John's arm was wrapped around the agent's throat, keeping the other man slightly off balance.

 

“Don't shoot,” ordered Mark, speaking to his team and the snipers behind them. If any of them took a shot right now, it would travel through John's body and into Mark's.

 

John began moving them to the right, the gun steady. He remembered hesitating to shoot Kara but he knew he could pull the trigger now and never lose sleep over it. Mark had told them both the other had betrayed their country, may even have given the order to fire on their position in Ordos. He'd grieved Kara's loss. For Mark's death, he'd breath easier knowing anyone they sent from here on out would not have the same advantage Mark had.

 

“What are you doing, John?” he asked, one hand coming to rest on John's forearm for balance as he continued to hold the other out in a staying gesture. “I'm your friend. I'm just trying to help you.”

 

“Just trying to help me into the grave?” growled John. They were only a few feet from the precipice now and John had to decide if he was going to take Mark with him over the edge or not. If he did, he ran the risk of Mark righting himself and being able to follow. If he shot the man, though, he'd have to account for the body and that could throw John off balance and he wasn't ready to sacrifice his own life just to get rid of Mark.

 

Mark spotted the fire escape and tensed, seeing at least part of what John was planning to do, forcing John to push harder to move him which, in turn, pushed against John's own injuries. Both men took deep breaths before all hell broke loose.

 

John turned them both, pushing Mark down to the ground and firing. It wouldn't kill the man, but it would put him out of play at least for tonight. At the same time, one of the snipers fired, catching John across his back and sending fire down his spine. Pushing through the pain, John leaped over the short lip of the roof and slid blindly down the side of the fire escape, grunting as the manoeuvre jostled his body and sent a new spike of agony racing along his nerves.

 

He wasn't sure how he made it to the ground, hadn't felt himself make the crucial jump to the opposite building to make this whole stunt work, but he did feel the impact as he hit the ground, crumbling on himself as gravity worked against him.

 

“John!” said Harold and he'd honestly forgotten he was still wearing the earwig.

 

 _He's scared for you,_ said a little voice in his mind that he shook away. _He's scared for what I'll do to him,_ he answered it.

 

“You set me up,” he said out loud, speaking to Harold for the first time as he stood from where he'd crumpled on the ground. He could still hear the agents on the roof, scrambling to get down to where he was. Impossibly, they hadn't had anyone waiting in case he escaped.

 

He just heard Harold's vehement denial before he pulled the earwig out and stepped on it, cutting the man off mid-word. Brick scraped against his new wound and he couldn't hold in a cry of pain as he finally made his way through. He was gasping as he moved to the utility tunnel and it was only sheer force of will that allowed him to lift the grate covering it enough to drop down.

 

He was ready for the impact this time, but still couldn't contain the sound that escaped his lips. He took a few shuddering breaths as he pulled the phone from his pocket and smashed it against the concrete wall and dropped it in the pool of water at his feet.

 

It was time to disappear for good.

 

***

 

Harold's eyes had begun to drift shut for longer seconds when an alert had brought him suddenly back to full awareness. One monitor was flashing a warning that it had detected a threat to John. He'd had multiple camera angles on his screen and could just make out movement on three roofs with easy sight lines of John. Another alert sounded and the system threw up footage of Agent Snow entering the building where John was hiding.

 

“No,” he muttered to himself, typing frantically as he tried to find a way out for his friend. He was so close to getting the man back, he couldn't lose him again. “John,” he said, keying the transmitter as he continued to type. “Something's wrong.”

 

John remained silent and Harold took a moment to glance at the monitor. John had disappeared from view, but Harold was confident he was still on the roof. A few seconds later, the access door opened and Agent Snow exited with five men in full tactical gear behind him. Each of the masked men held assault rifles aimed at John and Harold's heart seized at so much fire power.

 

He briefly considered calling their detectives, but dismissed the thought. There was nothing they could do against the CIA and calling them now would just reveal their hand and put their lives and freedom in jeopardy.

 

The camera feeds all abruptly turned to static causing a renewed typing frenzy. They'd cut the feeds, he knew, likely at the source. He was left staring at static-filled monitors and listening to Agent Snow attempt to lure John away from him. He didn't think John would believe the man, but he couldn't be sure. He still didn't know what John remembered. Did he think Harold was CIA? Did he think Harold was an asset that he'd been working? He didn't know what assumptions John was operating on because the infuriating man had refused to talk to him.

 

He closed his eyes and listened, terrified. He had a moment of hope when there was a scuffle and Agent Snow was suddenly clearly at John's mercy. If he didn't trust the CIA, then his mind was clearly somewhere after he had left and Harold could work with that. He knew that John.

 

A shot rang out clearly and for a long moment that was all Harold heard.

 

“John!” he cried, unable and unwilling to censor the blind terror that his friend might be bleeding on a roof, surrounded by CIA agents ready to kill him without a second thought.

 

Grunts of pain answered him and he had a temporary moment of relief when he realized that John, while wounded, was clearly alive. He would go to him, help him. He'd stood without thought, grabbing his keys and ready to follow John's GPS tracker.

 

He froze as John finally spoke to him before dropping back into his chair, unable to stand. “You set me up,” growled John and Harold had heard that same tone just before John killed someone.

 

Harold immediately denied it, willing John to remember their relationship, that he could trust Harold. They may have begun this whole affair as two strangers with freight trains filled with baggage, but they'd grown together, formed what he'd thought was an unbreakable partnership.

 

His words trailed off as his system told him that John had destroyed his phone, the signal dead. John was lost to him now. After this, he wasn't coming back. John would disappear from the city and probably even the country and Harold was left all alone.

 

Alone with only his machine and the numbers he was sure would drive him mad.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

 

“ _I never said thank you. For looking after me,” he said, watching Joan with a deep affection he hadn't felt in a long time._

 

“ _Who's looking after you now?” she asked, a sad smile gracing her features as she searched his with a penetrating gaze that had always seen through his lies and told him she didn't care what he had done or who he had been. All that mattered now was that he was John and they were friends._

 

“ _Someone new,” he said, his own smile quirking his lips as he remembered his partner kneeling at his feet, intent on getting his pant cuffs just right and sounding more like a parent on their child's first day of school._

 

John stared into space, lost in the pain and the memories. He'd managed to get far enough away that he thought he could surface safely. He'd found a thick wool coat somewhere—he couldn't be sure where as everything was starting to blur together—and stumbled into the first homeless camp he could find. It wasn't one he'd ever been to before and he was happy to realize he didn't recognise anyone here.

 

“ _Be careful what you look for, Mr. Reese. You just might find it.” They stared at each other for a long moment before John turned to find their newest number. He just managed to hold the smile until he left the library. If he had read that correctly, Harold had just told him that he wouldn't stop John from finding out what secrets lurked in Harold's past._

 

He shifted his weight as his muscles started to seize on themselves from hours of tense stillness. The new wound wasn't life threatening by itself, but he couldn't make another pharmacy run in his condition and infection would set in soon enough. He still had most of a bottle of pain pills and he was seriously considering downing them all. At least then he could control when he died.

 

“ _Thank you,” he said, not quite looking at Finch across the booth. The other man stopped, confusion crossing his features._

 

“ _I beg your pardon?”_

 

_John blinked slowly, opening his eyes to look Finch dead in the eye. He wanted the other man to know he meant these words, that he was speaking from honest gratitude and not out of some ploy to gain the other man's trust._

 

“ _For giving me a job.” They had a moment of understanding. They both knew John had been maybe a month from killing himself either from booze or a self-inflicted gun shot before Harold plucked him from anonymity and gave him a purpose._

 

He closed his eyes as emotion pulsed through him. He was leaving Harold to deal with the numbers all alone. He'd watched the camp move in a steady rhythm and he was reasonably sure it had been almost twenty-four hours since he'd first made it here, probably closer to twenty-eight since the roof. The camp was still now, occasional coughs and snores breaking the quiet.

 

He'd realized he'd been wrong about Harold around dawn. He figured the CIA had seen him help Carter and followed him back to the precinct. He'd been careless and blamed Harold. The smaller man deserved better, so he'd curled up for warmth and stayed here, ready to die on his own rather than cause the other man any more pain.

 

“ _The numbers never stop coming. You should know that up front.”_

 

Images of the board filled his mind. The numbers. The machine. He chuckled softly to himself. Mystery solved. He let his head fall back against the brick wall he sat against, amazed that there hadn't been an accompanying spike through his head. As much pain as he was in from his other injuries, his head probably just hadn't gotten the memo yet.

 

“ _The numbers haunted me.”_

 

He remembered wanting to put a comforting hand on Harold's shoulder, to put himself between Harold and the memories on that board and remind him that he was with Harold now. They were stopping bad things from happening to good people. Sure, they'd made a few mistakes along the way, but they were working to fix those, too. 

 

“ _I need you, John. I can't do this on my own. I can't do it without you.”_

 

He frowned. He didn't remember Harold saying those words, didn't have a memory of watching his face as he admitted to more than either of them had ever said before. But he could hear Harold saying them.

 

John pushed himself up, gritting his teeth as the pain spiked everywhere in his body all at once. When he was on his feet, he pulled out the bottle of pain killers and dry swallowed two of the quarters. Taking a few deep breaths, he steadied himself mentally and physically then pushed away from the wall and started walking.

 

***

 

Harold stared at his phone for a long minute, uncomprehending. He'd installed new motion detectors in the library before he left to alert him to an intruder. With John gone and in an unknowable state of mind, he felt he couldn't be too careful. He would now be alerted if anyone that was not himself entered the tunnel leading to the entrance, then the entrance and various points inside.

 

He'd been sure he was being overly paranoid when he'd installed them, but now someone had entered the library, apparently moving slowly as the alerts were spaced a fair span of time apart. With the message that the intruder had entered the inner sanctum, a photo of John's haggard face was included, the first time the system was able to get a usable image.

 

Harold felt a brief moment of paralysing fear at the thought that John had come to kill him for what he thought was Harold's betrayal before he gave himself a mental slap. If John did want to kill him, Harold was quite sure that he would never see it coming and he certainly wouldn't come in the front door looking like death warmed over.

 

The waitress startled him with his check and he smiled automatically and thanked her. He was sitting at a new diner and had just finished his breakfast before making his own way to the library. He considered his options now. He could continue on and find out what John was doing, he could remotely destroy the computers and report John to the authorities or he could abandon the library all together and leave John to his devices.

 

He sighed. He didn't really have any actual options. He wasn't going to abandon John now and he certainly wouldn't betray him like the other man thought he'd already done. Dropping money on the table, he picked up his book and began walking toward a man he had assumed he would never see again.

 

The diner was relatively close and he arrived in twenty minutes. John hadn't disturbed anything as he came in so Harold headed immediately for the second floor. The grate had been left partially askew which told Harold that John wasn't attempting to be particularly stealthy in his appearance, may even have known about the motion detectors when he set them off. Or he didn't care.

 

Harold set his book down on the nearest shelf and walked slowly toward the workstation. The office was still dark, but various status lights told him it wasn't because John had disabled the power. He stopped at the light switch, considering. As soon as he turned the lights on, John would know that he was here and exactly where he was. Taking a calming breath, he flicked the switch. If he didn't trust John now, then he couldn't ever truly trust him again.

 

When nothing happened, he blew the breath back out, relaxing marginally and looking around. He regarded the room for several long moments as he took every detail in. It seemed John had come in, taken Harold's extra coat from the rack and disappeared.

 

“John?” he called, not sure where to look next. He heard movement from one of the back rooms and took a few steps in that direction. The door was partially hidden by his board of lost chances but he could see that John had tucked himself in the corner of the old couch Harold kept for nights when he needed a few hours of sleep but didn't want to return home. Harold's spare coat was draped over his legs to ward off the chill.

 

As Harold came closer, John kicked the garment off and stood carefully, his arms wrapped protectively around his body. He was pale and seemed small tucked into another coat, this one clearly one he'd found somewhere on the street, the dark garment stained and torn in places but thick. When their gazes met, Harold could see the shadows around John's eyes and the dirt smudged on his face.

 

“John?” he asked again, staying where he was as John took a few slow steps back toward the main room. Harold kept himself steady as John approached then turned to face the board. Curious, he closed the remaining distance to stand beside his friend and watch John's face as his eyes moved across the pictures and numbers staring lifelessly back at him. Harold had always felt they were staring with recrimination, but then, he'd known something was going to happen to them and done nothing to prevent it.

 

“They're the ones you couldn't save,” said John, his voice gravelly and sounding like he hadn't used it since his last accusation, but unmistakably directed at Harold. “They're the numbers the Machine gave you before you found me.”

 

Harold smiled, breathing a sigh of relief that he felt he'd been holding since the explosion almost two weeks previous. “You remember,” he said, allowing himself a glance at the board before returning his eyes to John's face.

 

John frowned slightly, ducking his head. He opened his mouth once before finally saying, “Not all of it.” He turned to face Harold directly for the first time, searching his face for something. Harold left himself open, letting every feeling float across his features. He'd never allowed John to see this much of himself before, but he knew the other man needed that now. “But I remember enough.”

 

The smile that had started to fade returned and Harold took another small step toward John. “Good. I was worried about you.”

 

John turned back to the board, shifting to wrap his arms closer around himself. Was he cold? The library was relatively warm, especially considering the chilly temperatures outside, but if John had been in a homeless shelter or camp all night, the chill may have settled into his bones.

 

“I'm sorry,” he said. Harold started to brush it off but paused when John continued. “For doubting you. For thinking you had sold me out to the CIA.” He turned back to look again directly into Harold's eyes, making sure he had Harold's full attention. “I know you would never do that.”

 

Harold took the final step that would put him next to John and laid a hand on John's shoulder, intending to give him some measure of comfort. As soon as his hand settled, however, John flinched away, pain screwing up his face as a hiss escaped his lips.

 

“John!” cried Harold, pulling his hand away and realizing it was damp with John's blood. John had not had an injury there while in the hospital. Which meant he'd either gotten into more trouble than Harold realized, or the CIA had gotten another lucky shot.

 

John shook off Harold's attempt to cradle his elbow and guide him somewhere to sit.

 

“I'm fine,” he insisted, though the statement lost most of its effect as it was said through gritted teeth. “I'm fine,” he repeated after a moment, a bit easier.

 

“You're not,” said Harold, mentally tallying the medical supplies he had on hand. He'd recently restocked, so was confident they had anything they would need to patch John up. “Please, John, let me help you.”

 

John seemed ready to argue, to pull away from Harold and maybe even leave again but stopped when Harold didn't back away. The taller man held himself perfectly still for several moments and Harold could see the wheels turning in his head as he considered his options. Finally, the tension eased from his body and he nodded.

 

Harold led him back into the room he'd emerged from and tugged at the coat, silently asking John to remove it. It took the both of them moving slowly as dried blood had begun adhering the fabric to John's skin. John's suit jacket came next and Harold knew it was a lost cause. It was ripped from John's right shoulder and across the back where the bullet had grazed him. Harold had John sit on a stool as Harold began inspecting the wound through the blue shirt John still wore.

 

He could see bandages peeking from behind the fabric where John had doctored his own burns. What should have been clean, dry white gauze was damp and beginning to yellow. Beyond that, Harold could see where the flesh had been ripped apart and blood had dried in dark clots along the wound. Harold stepped around so he could see John's face. His friend's eyes were closed and he was breathing carefully and deliberately in a way Harold knew was helping control the pain.

 

“John, we need to take your shirt off.”

 

John squinted up at him, lingering uncertainty showing in his eyes. Harold waited and John finally nodded his head again. His fingers were clumsy as he fumbled with the small buttons and Harold easily batted the larger hands away and deftly unbuttoned the shirt, pushing away the quiet intimacy to focus on the job at hand.

 

As the shirt fell away, Harold found that John had what nearly amounted to an extra under shirt of bandages wrapped around his torso. The bandages that had covered the burn continued down his side to near his belly button. They covered a quarter of his chest and back and gauze had been wrapped around his bicep to just past his elbow. More gauze was wrapped just below his pectorals to help support his ribs. All of the gauze was damp as well as part of John's shirt and Harold suspected the other man had been sweating heavily, though he doubted it was due to temperature.

 

Harold could see where the worst of the burns were based on yellowing of the gauze from ointment and fluids seeping through the bandages. The roll wrapped around John had begun to curl and the tape was bunching and losing its hold.

 

“Will you let me check your other injuries?”

 

John ducked his head again and, this close, Harold could see a slight flush darken his neck. Surely he wasn't embarrassed? Harold had seen his naked chest on more than one occasion following various injuries, had even helped keep the bandage around his middle changed after the first time the CIA shot him.

 

“I haven't been able to take care of them like I should have,” he said.

 

Harold brushed a hand down John's good left arm in a soothing gesture. “We can take care of it now,” said Harold softly, assuring John that he wasn't accusing him of being lax. He wasn't sure why John was embarrassed to have been caught in less than stellar health, but he would do everything he could to keep the man from feeling worse.

 

Harold pulled off his own jacket and vest and rolled up his sleeves as he crossed to the shelf with first aid supplies and pulled out a pair of medical scissors. When he returned, he made sure John could see them and could stop Harold if he was uncomfortable with what he was doing. When John didn't push him away, Harold began cutting the gauze around his ribs and then pulled away the tape. A few more cuts removed the bandages around his bicep. Once the old bandages were removed, Harold took a moment to inspect everything.

 

There were old bruises on John's left side, though Harold didn't think they exactly marked where he had cracked ribs, rather where John's body had impacted something in the explosion. The burns had started scabbing and the edges even looked as if they may have begun to heal slightly. The worst of it, though, was still deep red. Harold found two places where infection seemed to have taken a foothold, one toward the back of John's bicep and another on John's torso, again toward his back. Both places radiated heat when he put his hand near them.

 

Harold made his way back up to inspect the new wound on John's back. It appeared to start at the edge of the burn and Harold imagined that spot would be particularly tender when he began stitching things back together. The wound extended a few inches past John's spine, though it wasn't nearly as deep the further away from the burn it got. Small miracles, Harold thought, all too aware that John would likely have been killed or paralysed if the bullet had continued as deeply as it had started.

 

John jumped slightly when Harold placed careful hands just above and below the torn flesh at his spine and began probing the area systematically, confirming that there didn't appear to be any damage to John's spine.

 

“We need to clean it,” said Harold, finally as his movements began cracking blood clots and dried blood started flaking off and onto the floor.

 

John nodded mutely and stood with Harold's help. There was another door on the opposite wall from where they'd entered that led to a bathroom. A full tub and adjustable shower head had been installed not long after Harold had bought the building. Harold helped John sit on the edge of the tub, still wearing his trousers, though Harold knew John would likely need to change those once they were done. Not only were they stained as much as the old coat, but they would be soaked by the water streaming down his back. But that would be a problem to face once they were done.

 

John leaned sideways against the wall, keeping himself upright enough that his ribs didn't bother him but not as straight as Harold knew he tended to prefer. The pain was taking its toll on his friend. It took a few minutes to adjust the water so it was warm without being scalding and another moment to turn the knob on the shower head so that it was a steady spray without being too hard that it would cause more pain than necessary.

 

When he was satisfied, Harold turned back to John. He'd closed his eyes and was breathing slow, measured breaths. His face wasn't completely relaxed, but it also wasn't screwed into pain like it had been when he first sat down.

 

Harold placed a hand on John's uninjured left arm. John opened his eyes and glanced between Harold and the hose currently spraying the back wall.

 

“Are you ready?” he asked, keeping his hand on John's arm in both support and comfort.

 

“Yeah,” spoke John, moving sideways so that he was in the middle of the ledge.

 

Harold gave the arm a squeeze and then moved to stand between John's knees. He was leaning over John's shoulders and John leaned down and rested his head against Harold's side and let him work. Harold started the spray on John's left where the wound tapered off, giving him a chance to acclimate to the new sensations. The first six inches were cleaned quickly, dried blood easily dislodging and disappearing down the drain. As he moved to the deepest part of the wound, he felt John's muscles tighten, saw the tension in his back. His left hand rested against John's temple, silently telling him that he was working as fast as he could while still being thorough.

 

“I'm okay,” he heard John say, though it sounded more like a gasp than a reassurance.

 

Harold removed the hand as he moved closer to the burn, needing it to help pull the old clots away. He continued to move the water past the wound and onto the burn, washing away bits of dirt that had gotten past the bandages and winced in sympathy when John gasped at the warm water hitting seared flesh. What felt like a lifetime later, Harold moved the spray away from John and leaned down to turn the taps off, the whole time cradling John's head to his side and murmuring reassurances that they were done as John held himself rigid against the pain.

 

They stayed like that for long minutes and Harold was beginning to worry that he'd caused John additional injury when the other man finally relaxed. Taking a step back, Harold watched John's face come up, his skin paler than it had been and damp from where he'd been sweating again.

 

“It needs to be disinfected,” said John in a whisper. Harold suspected he couldn't muster anything stronger than that right now. Harold started to say something, to protest that he'd washed it and that should be enough. With a wound that large, any disinfectant would be agony. “Please, Harold. Just pour it over the wound. Iodine if we have it, isopropyl alcohol if we don't.”

 

John's jaw was set and he knew better than anyone how much it would hurt. Harold didn't need to remind him of that. But John was right: if they didn't disinfect it now, with how long it had been exposed, John would likely see an infection within a day. Harold nodded and helped his friend lean back against the wall while he moved away long enough to fetch the bottle. When he returned, John had kept his eyes open this time and was watching him blankly. The paleness, Harold was suddenly sure, was due to blood loss.

 

As he approached, John moved himself back to the centre and took a few steadying breaths. Harold matched those breaths, readying himself. Intellectually, he knew he had to do this for his friend, but that didn't make it any easier to cause him this much pain.

 

“Do it,” John said, moving his hands to grip the edge of the tub and ducking his head again.

 

Harold moved to take his position between John's knees and let the other man rest his head against his torso again. He pulled the cap off and pocketed it before cradling the back of John's neck in comfort and to keep him from throwing his head back and dousing his face by accident.

 

He matched his breathing with John's for two breaths and finally tipped the bottle as they both breathed out. John's knuckled were immediately white as he squeezed the side of the tub and the muscles under Harold's hand bunched. He felt the vibration of John's groan before he heard it and then it built into a wordless cry as Harold steadily poured a thin line of iodine back and forth along the wound and watched as the liquid stained John's back yellow.

 

When he'd used half the bottle, he stopped and let John catch his breath.

 

“I'm sorry,” he said, rubbing his hand up and down John's neck and the top of his back. “I'm so sorry,” he repeated as he felt a fine tremor begin in John's body. John's gasps continued as drops found their way deeper into the wound and ignited nerves anew.

 

Harold reached for a hanging towel and began carefully wiping away the excess while still attempting to soothe the man in his arms. Absently he felt dampness where John's face was tucked against his side and realized that tears had likely escaped at some point. Had their positions been somehow reversed, Harold couldn't say that he wouldn't have been openly sobbing or flat passed out.

 

He didn't know how long they stayed there, didn't care so long as John began to settle himself. When John did lift his head, his eyes were hooded and his muscles weak. His breathing was closer to normal and he'd quieted a few minutes before.

 

John opened his mouth to say something, but only managed a croak. Harold immediately looked around for water, but knew he would find nothing within reach. John coughed and tried again, this time managing a coarse whisper.

 

“Do you remember how to suture?”

 

Harold should figure that John was still working to direct the situation. Even trembling from pain and exhaustion, completely at Harold's mercy, he still acted like he had it completely under control. Harold wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or cry, to hug or hit John.

 

“Yes, John,” he said instead. “I remember how to suture. With you around, I can't really forget.” He smiled at the end, making sure John knew he was merely attempting to tease, to put them both at ease. John gave him a small smile and reached out for Harold to help him stand.

 

John was weaker than either of them anticipated and they both nearly fell when his knees didn't want to support him. Harold somehow managed to keep them upright, gritting his teeth when his own back and neck sent shooting arcs of pain through his body in protest of the harsh treatment, but he turned his face slightly away and held onto the groan. John didn't need to know how much this hurt Harold and his pain was minuscule compared to what John had just endured.

 

The process went smoother once they were moving and they managed to get John situated back on the stool without any more mishaps. Harold busied himself with washing his hands and preparing the needle while John sat quietly, a bottle of water in his hands that he took regular small sips from.

 

It was a different kind of quiet than earlier, Harold realized as he was pulling gloves on. They had returned to the easy quiet of two men who simply didn't speak much instead of John's calculating silence designed to pull information from Harold. It continued when Harold threaded the needle and then on as he began passing the needle through flesh and knotting it together.

 

Harold winced in sympathy each time the curved needle pulled opposite sides of the wound together, but John remained quiet—passive, even. The trembling had abated and John's breaths came in slow, measured releases. Harold wondered as he moved closer to the burn and the worst of the injury if the natural endorphin release was putting John to sleep. His head wasn't bobbing like he might expect, but then John was a trained operative who he was sure could sleep standing up with his eyes open.

 

***

 

John let the regular movement of the needle passing into and out of his skin wash over him, the tiny pricks barely registering in his mind as pain after the agony of cleaning his wounds. He hadn't intended for Harold to see the extent of his injuries, but feeling what a simple touch had done to the torn nerves, John had known he was perhaps a week from dying from the trauma if they weren't treated and he certainly wasn't in any condition to take care of it himself.

 

Sitting here now, letting Harold's presence wash over him, he found his entire body felt devoid of a burden he hadn't realised he was carrying and he couldn't say why. He was used to coping on his own, knowing that any day could be his last, but the thought of dying alone in the homeless camp had truly terrified him. In front of Harold, he didn't have to be strong or steadfast. He simply was.

 

As Harold's needle came closer to the burn, even the wave of endorphins he was riding wasn't enough to completely block out the renewed pain. Honestly, he'd been hoping that the amount of damage might have killed the nerves in the area, but he wasn't that lucky. It wasn't until Harold placed a steadying hand on his good shoulder that John even realised he'd made a sound.

 

He knew they'd never been the most tactile of partners, though they certainly hadn't avoided touching each other. He even remembered Harold helping him dress and undress for the first day or so after his first run in with Mark. But he couldn't help but think that something had changed in the casual touches. Harold seemed to be reassuring himself as much as John that he was actually there and not just a figment of his imagination. With anyone else, John would have felt the touches becoming invasive and he would have begun to brush them off. With Harold, he found he wanted the touches, as much for their presence as to reassure himself that he had found where he was supposed to be.

 

When he was finished with the sutures, Harold changed his gloves and brought over a large tube of ointment. John couldn't read the label, but assumed it to be antiseptic of some sort. He remained still as Harold liberally applied the gel, smiling softly to himself when it wasn't even cool, telling him that Harold had held it in his hand long enough to warm it.

 

He paused once he was finished, appraising John. John turned and raised an eyebrow, amused at the way his friend's brows were furrowed together in concentration.

 

“What's wrong?” he asked and noted that his voice was closer to normal now that he'd gotten down most of a bottle of water. He would need more, he knew, but he was content for now.

 

Harold glanced at him sheepishly, and John watched his ears turn slightly pink. It was an interesting reaction that John held on to while he continued to observe.

 

“I'm formulating a plan,” said Harold, waving in the general direction of John's ragged back and side. “I don't want to tape over anything that's still healing, but the gash and the burn are the same injury just over your shoulder blade.”

 

John pushed himself upright to approach Harold's supplies and smiled indulgently when Harold began flitting around him like a mother hen, tutting at his disturbing the wounds and checking to make sure nothing had reopened. John waved him off easily, pulling out a few bandages and a number of rolls of gauze.

 

“This across my back,” he said, holding out a large bandage that he folded into a thinner strip. The extra layer would give him some padding if he attempted to lay down. He opened a second kit that contained large pads and pulled a few out. “Layer these as you need to get full coverage.” He placed a smaller pad on top. “This over my shoulder, but without taping.” He pointed to the six rolls of gauze. “And finish with those.”

 

Harold looked between the supplies and John, considering. He'd probably been thinking about trying to bandage each injury separately, but there was too much overlap. John's method kept everything loosely linked but with enough delineation that Harold wouldn't have to try to wrap a single roll around the entire thing.

 

“Got it?” asked John when Harold looked like he might try to argue something, though there wasn't really much he could argue.

 

Harold flapped his hand at John, indicating the stool. “Yes, yes. I can do this.”

 

John pulled his stool closer and let random images of Harold making the same gesture and speaking in the same tone wash over himself. There had been a number of times when he'd put Harold out of his comfort zone and the smaller man always resorted to that tone when John inquired if he understood his instructions. He remembered purposefully inciting the man more than once just to hear the exasperation in his voice.

 

“You're smiling,” noted Harold as he touched John's shoulder to get him to turn slightly for a better angle.

 

John thought about brushing off the comment, giving some flippant remark about Harold's observation skills, but quickly rejected the thought. Harold was being surprisingly open with him right now and he didn't want to close the book on the other man's feelings.

 

“I was just remembering,” he said.

 

Harold paused in his ministrations and John expected him to ask what he was remembering. Instead, he simply placed the first bandage in place and began pulling bit of surgical tape off the roll to hold the pad in place. He worked quickly, tapping John's good arm at intervals to get him to turn on the stool so Harold could reach the next place that needed a bandage.

 

When they reached his side, John turned to look down at the damage. While it certainly wasn't the worst thing he'd suffered, this was by far the most visibly extensive. Harold had asked him to lift his arm while he finished the taping around his torso and John rested the appendage against Harold's bicep while deft fingers tickled across his chest. He felt a sudden rush of desire for Harold's hands to move in a more intimate caress.

 

He'd partially closed his eyes as Harold worked and now took the chance to watch Harold's reactions somewhat surreptitiously. The pink he'd observed around Harold's ears earlier had spread to his cheeks and down his neck and he realized the other man was breathing slightly heavier than he normally did. Interesting.

 

Harold moved John's arm back down so he could finish the bicep, forcing John to look down or give himself away. When he was done, he moved John's arm back down and inspected his handy work. John could tell that everything was secure, so let Harold have his moment. His eyes opened fully as he sensed Harold moving to touch his other side where there were still yellow bruises.

 

“How do your ribs feel?”

 

The touch was gentle, barely a whisper across the marred skin, conscious that the injury could be anywhere.

 

“Better.” John took a deeper breath, noting the twinge and letting Harold see it for what it was. “They'll be fine in another few weeks.”

 

“Do you need me to wrap them?”

 

John shook his head no. “Not unless I hit them again,” said John and Harold pulled away. John tried not to let the disappointment show on his face.

 

Harold turned and began cleaning the table he'd been working from, letting John stand on his own with only a mild glance of disapproval that faded when he realized John was looking for another bottle of water to sip at.

 

John allowed his mind to wander again, mentally evaluating how dehydrated he was and how bad the infection felt. He knew they had IV bags in here and he would need to set up a drip before long to try to forestall further dehydration and additional infection. In the back of his mind, he considered his next words to Harold. While he certainly appreciated that Harold had returned to the library, it bothered him that Harold hadn't moved on in the day since he'd suggested he blamed his friend for what had happened.

 

After a few minutes, the sounds from behind him stilled and Harold came around to stand in front of him, watching his face for any clue as to what was going through John's head. John had been staring blindly at the wall but turned to face Harold. Harold frowned, seeing the gravity in John's features.

 

“What is it?”

 

“You shouldn't have still been here,” he said and Harold frowned harder, not understanding. “When I came back, it should be have been to an empty building,” he continued.

 

Harold ducked his head, but not before John saw the grief in his eyes. “I know. There are half a dozen other places I could set up, all ready for the installation.”

 

“Not the ones I know about.”

 

“No. Other places. I haven't told you everything,” he admitted, looking back up and meeting John's eyes, daring him to get angry.

 

“Good. You need to have places like that. Just in case. Not just in case I lose my memory, but if I'm taken into custody. I'll do everything I can to keep from giving you up, but everyone has a breaking point and Mark knows what does and doesn't work against me.”

 

“I know,” said Harold, turning and walking a few steps away, but stopping when the wall kept him from going any further. When he turned back to face John again, the grief had been replaced with concern, confusion and something John couldn't identify. “But I couldn't just abandon you out of hand.”

 

John sighed quietly to himself. He sometimes forgot that, for all Harold was willing to pack up and quit a menial job because John had found it, what attachments he did form were enduring and nearly impossible to break. He'd proved that much the first time he'd saved John all those months ago.

 

John took the same steps Harold had taken, bringing himself back into Harold's space and forcing the other man to look up at him. “Yes, you can. If it comes to it, I know you can make that decision.”

 

“What if I don't want to?” whispered Harold, the question telling John more than a blanket statement could.

 

“Sometimes we have to do things we don't want,” began John, knowing the words would sound trite but barreling on before Harold could interrupt. “I'm expendable, Harold. There are other down and out spies that can do this job just as well as I can. And you have Carter and Fusco now. You're not alone anymore.”

 

“But they're not you.”

 

The words hung in the air between them and John wasn't sure Harold had realized he'd spoken them until he started to pull away, disappointment beginning to cloud his eyes. John stopped him to the only way he knew how: he brought a hand up to cup Harold's cheek, startling Harold into looking back at him.

 

“Promise me you won't be as reckless if something happens to me,” he said and found his own voice had faded to a hoarse whisper. “Promise me you'll do what needs to be done.” Harold started to shake his head no, but John inched forward, letting his eyes show how determined he was in this. “Promise me, Harold.”

 

Harold closed his eyes, leaning back against the wall in defeat and nodding his acquiescence. “I promise.”

 

John waited for Harold to open his eyes, searching the blue depths for any sign that Harold was holding back. When he was satisfied with what he saw, he took a split second to make a decision that had been building since he remembered words he was now sure Harold had spoken while he was in the hospital.

 

He leaned forward and kissed Harold gently, letting his eyes drift closed as he took the moment to simply feel. Harold remained still for a long moment and John started pull away when Harold's hand came up to rest tentatively on his left side, the other dancing along the bandages, wanting to settle, but not wanting to hurt.

 

Harold kissed him back, his own movements careful not to spook John away. John moved his hand to cradle Harold's neck, keeping it from tilting back at a painful angle as he shuffled a few inches closer, bringing their bodies closer without quite touching. They deepened the kiss in silent agreement and John wasn't surprised to taste green tea on the edges of Harold's tongue.

 

When they parted, John moved his head to bring gentle lips to Harold's temple, warding off the harshness of his earlier words with easy comfort. After a moment, he did pull slowly away, letting Harold regain his composure as his hands fell away from soft skin. Whatever this was between them, he knew he didn't want to rush into anything, even if his condition kept him from doing much beyond this anyway.

 

He was happy to see that Harold was as reluctant to part as he was, though he saw the understanding to why.

 

“You should,” started Harold, but stopping as his voice croaked out. He cleared his throat and started again. “You should get some rest. Do you need anything for the pain?”

 

“No.” John stepped back, letting his hands rest at his sides and drinking in the sight of Harold's care and mild arousal before turning back to find IV bags. “Thank you.”

 

He shivered as the cool air hit his heated skin and Harold immediately offered to bring him new clothes. John was suddenly alone as Harold left to another side room where they kept extra clothes and busied himself by crossing the room and pulling out two IV bags, one of saline and the other antibiotics and an administration line. There was a stand tucked into a corner of the room that he pulled over to the couch and began hanging the bags and prepping the line. The movements were easy and gave him a chance to calm his mind of all the possibilities suddenly rushing through it now that he knew there was something deeper between the two of them.

 

Harold frowned at the new set up until he read the bags, nodding to himself when he realized what they were for. He held out sweatpants and a knit button down shirt, both designed for comfort and not fashion.

 

“Do you need help?” asked Harold, averting his eyes as a flush bloomed up his face.

 

“I can manage,” he said, taking the garments and retreating to the bathroom to take care of other matters while he changed.

 

He could hear Harold moving around the library outside the closed door while he toed off his shoes removed the ruined trousers and folded them neatly on the edge of the tub. He relieved his bladder and sat on the closed seat to peel off socks and then pull the soft fabric of the pants up his legs, not trusting himself to bend down yet. He'd already worn this pair a few times after the last shooting and knew they fit perfectly, not too tight but not too loose they were falling down. He let warm water wash over his hands for several seconds before soaping them and rinsing then splashing water on his face to wipe some of the accumulated grime from his cheeks and chin.

 

He would need a proper shower before long, but he already felt better than he had since he'd last been to the library. He looked considerately at the shirt and tested the pull of his arm, wincing when the damaged skin told him exactly how much was too much movement. He'd need Harold's help getting that on after all.

 

Picking up the garment, he finally exited the bathroom and found Harold setting a mug of soup and a plate of crackers on a tray table near the couch, another bottle of water already there. The mother hen was back in force, it would seem.

 

“You didn't need to do that,” said John, smiling despite himself.

 

Harold levelled a dubious glare. “When was the last time you ate?”

 

John had the decency to look sheepish, at least. His mind had been more on escape than sustenance as he made his mad dash through the city away from Mark and before then...he couldn't remember if he'd eaten anything while watching the last number.

 

“Exactly,” said Harold, rounding the couch and holding out a hand for the shirt without John needing to ask.

 

They managed the task with minimal wincing then Harold insisted John sit and eat before he let him near the IV line. With only one good hand, it was probably a good thing. He kept himself at a moderate pace, despite suddenly feeling ravenous after he took the first bite of cracker. Harold hovered nearby, making sure John ate everything and noting the exhaustion begin to creep back into John's frame.

 

John rolled up his left sleeve as Harold took the small table and brought the IV stand back to the couch. He barely contained what would probably have sounded suspiciously like a whine when Harold insisted on starting the line for John, though John was willing to admit it might have taken him more than one try to get the needle positioned and that would have been one more bruise to add to the collection.

 

Harold had surprised him the last time he'd been laid up by demonstrating a deftness with needles, though he wasn't sure why that should surprise him. For someone as adverse to violence as Harold tended to be, he was remarkably capable of dealing with the fallout. John wondered, not for the first time, if his aversion was more from experience with such fallout.

 

As John finally laid back against the extra pillows Harold had found and piled up, he was content and exhausted enough to let Harold continue his fussing. John's eyes began drifting closed and Harold took that as a sign to settle down and watch him ease into the cushions.

 

“Thank you,” mumbled John, bringing Harold's attention suddenly back to him. “For not giving up.”

 

For all of John's words of bravado, for all he wanted Harold to be ready to abandon him, he did appreciate that the man had stayed. He knew he'd have died on the street without Harold's quiet strength and support. And he wasn't quite ready to give up on their mission yet. They still had too many people to save, including each other.

 

For Harold, he'd fight hell, high water and amnesia. It was all worth it, in the end. For moments seeing Harold look at him with the kind of easy care and understanding like he was now, it was all worth it.

 

FIN

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Lost in New York City—My Descent Beyond Hell](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3343415) by [mizwidget](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mizwidget/pseuds/mizwidget), [Wanderer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderer/pseuds/Wanderer)




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